


Mystrade: A Study in Tea

by LadyLilyMalfoy



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bromance, Coffee, Feels, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Obsessive-Compulsive, Pre-Slash, Romance, Tea, scary mother
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-07-21
Updated: 2012-12-17
Packaged: 2017-11-10 10:07:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 18
Words: 24,453
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/465086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyLilyMalfoy/pseuds/LadyLilyMalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mystrade: A Study in Tea follows the tentative beginnings of the relationship between Mycroft Holmes and Greg Lestrade. From association to friendship to love and all the fuzzy bits in-between. It is a slow-moving romance with tea and biscuits, prevarication and frustration, and more unashamed fluff that could ever be considered decent..</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Polystyrene

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by this essay by EnigmaticPenguinofDeath - http://enigmaticpenguinofdeath.tumblr.com/post/26358790781/a-guide-to-writing-sherlockian-tea-habits

** Chapter One: Polystyrene. **

****

Mycroft considered the polystyrene cup that he had just been handed with thin lips, a raised eyebrow and mild disgust. “What is this?”

“Milk and two sugars,” chirped Lestrade happily, blowing the steam from his own cup that was clasped tightly in his gloved hands. “Just like you asked for.”

“Yes, but what _is_ it?” Mycroft sniffed cautiously but the scent was not one he was familiar with. Being a self-proclaimed tea-connoisseur, this was _most_ disconcerting. “Twinnings? Clipper?  _PG Tips_?” The last was almost spat out, such was his distaste for the brand.

Lestrade shrugged as though it were of no importance. “Oh, I don’t know. Probably Spar’s own. It’s hot, it’s wet… tea is tea.”

Mycroft’s lips tightened into an even thinner line; tea was most certainly _not_ tea. And this… he peeled back the plastic lid with the tips of his thumb and index finger as though it were a particularly disgusting specimen that needed removing. _This_ , in no realms of the imagination, could even slightly be considered tea. Hot and wet, yes, but _tea_. It was a travesty to grant this dishwater such an honoured title!

_Tea_...

“Is it okay?”

Ready to tell the detective inspector precisely what he thought of his _tea,_ Mycroft raised his head. __

 Lestrade was looking at him with a hopeful expectation over the rim of his own cup as he sipped steadily. __

 With an imperceptible sigh, Mycroft nodded stiffly, “Thank you, Inspector,” before raising the flimsy container to his lips and drinking.

It was hot, it was wet and, on that cold afternoon, isn’t that what really mattered?


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Mycroft thinks he's right and Greg knows he isn't.  
> Edit: Have changed from a series to a chaptered story :)

** Chapter Two: That Age Old Debate. **

****

“What is this?”

“A packet of Jaffa Cakes.”

“Yes, I can see that...”

“Then forgive me if I fail to see the point of your question.”

“You’re not going to...  _what are you doing?_  That’s tantamount to  _treason_!”

“On the contrary, Inspector, I am certain that, were the nation to embrace this habit, Britain would become a much nicer place to exist.”

“What? No! Just... _no_!”

“Your impeccable argument is most persuasive...”

“But they’re  _cakes_!”

“No, they are biscuits.”

“So I suppose the word ‘cake’ is irrelevant?”

“Quite.”

“No!”

“My dear Lestrade, they are  _biscuits_. They are purchased from the biscuit section, they are sold in tubes and they are consumed with tea-”

“No no no. Let me stop you  _right_  there! You do not  _dip_  a Jaffa Cake. It will dissolve into mush because it is a  _cake_. You do  _not. Dip. Cake!”_

“I quite agree. I would never dream of dipping a cake. However, a Jaffa Cake is not a cake, therefore-”

“Stop it!”

“You are over-reacting, Lestrade. I must insist that you at least try it for yourself, before condemning it. It will enhance your life.”

“No it won’t. It will ruin my tea.”

“It’s all about calculation, Inspector – estimating the optimum length of time between dipping and removing. A second’s error could result in untold disaster. Observe...”

“Mr Holmes, I really don’t think-”

“Shit.”

“Well, I  _did_  tell you.”


	3. Assam

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pouring tea should never be that sensual...

** Chapter Three: Assam . **

****

Mycroft raised his head almost reluctantly from the newspaper in his lap and smiled at the newcomer now standing in the doorway of the visitor’s room. “Ah, Inspector Lestrade, how good of you to come.”

Lestrade did not share this pleasure in the slightest. “I thought we had progressed beyond this sort of thing, Mr Holmes,” he said stiffly, arms folded across his chest. “You might’ve at least waited until I had finished work.”

“Don’t be morose, Inspector. This won’t take up too much of your time, I assure you. Please, sit down.”

Grumbling to himself, Lestrade reluctantly obeyed – hating that the chairs of the Diogenes Club were so invited, that the smell of brewing Assam was already making his mouth water, that he was very secretly pleased to have an excuse to leave the crime-scene...

He sunk down into the plush velvet seat with a hidden sigh and watched, relishing the relief of his blood gradually defrosting, as Mycroft set about preparing the tea with the careful consideration of a man proud of his art.

The delicate lid was lifted gently, allowing wisps of steam to escape. Subtle, malty aromas flirted with dark fruity ones and, together, teased the detective inspector almost to the point of torment before dispersing into the greater vicinity of the dimly-lit lounge.

An imperceptible smirk played upon Mycroft’s lips as he delicately stirred the blend of dark leaves with his own silver spoon, entirely aware of the effect his meticulous tea-service was having on the older man. That was the beauty of Assam.

Replacing the lid and drawing two pairs of monogrammed cups with their saucers towards him, Mycroft reached for the little jug of milk and added a moderate quantity to each before placing a small dish of silver mesh into one of the cups.

Lestrade unconsciously licked his lips and watched, enthralled, as Mycroft lifted the ornate tea-pot with both hands – the long fingers of one curled around the handle as the other rested gently on top, securing the lid – before tipping it at the slightest of angles and finally allowing a stream of rich, brown liquid to fill the porcelain cup; the light and the dark merging and transforming until they became one perfect shade of mid-mahogany.

There was a light chink of metal against china, then Mycroft leaned forward in his seat and passed the tea across to his companion who tried not accept it was too much enthusiasm.

“So,” said Mycroft, attending to his own cup and Lestrade sipped slowly, savouring every note that the tea played upon his tongue, “what, Detective Inspector, can you tell me about Doctor John Watson?”   


	4. The Issue with Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft learns of one of Greg's bad habits.

** Chapter Four: The Issue with Coffee. **

****

“This is  _completely_  unnecessary! I do  _not_ need babysitting!” Sherlock protested angrily as John, Lestrade and his brother crowded into the living room of 221B.

They all ignored him, pointedly.

They congregated together in response to one thing – Lestrade called it ‘one of Sherlock’s patches, to Mycroft it was ‘more than potentially problematic’, John had christened it a ‘danger night’, but they were all in agreement that it was something best avoided at all costs. Consequently, an intervention had been called for, much to Sherlock’s irritation.

“I’ll stick the kettle on,” John called from the kitchen as Mycroft and Lestrade divested themselves of their overcoats.

“That would be delightful, Doctor Watson.”

“Tea?” It wasn’t really a question.

“Milk, two sugars, thank you,” respondedMycroft almost as a reflex, settling himself down in his brother’s favourite place on the sofa.

“Right. Greg?”

Taking the other side of the same sofa, Lestrade contemplated his response carefully for a moment before replying, “Got any coffee, John?”

“Instant do you?”

“Yeah, all good. Black, three sugars please.”

“No problem.”

“Cheers.”

Throughout this short, seemingly innocuous exchange, Greg was entirely oblivious to the look he was receiving from the man sitting next to him until he turned his head to say something. The full force of Mycroft’s glare promptly obliterated any notion of conversation from the inspector’s mind. “What?” he asked, feeling very disconcerted. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

It took a while for Mycroft to manipulate his lips around the word, but eventually he managed to expel it in a sharp hiss of disgust, “ _Coffee_.”

Lestrade blinked twice. “What’s wrong with coffee?”

“ _Everything is wrong with coffee._ ”

“I’ll have coffee too, John,” said Sherlock, wandering from room to room with a sour expression and hands thrust deep into his trouser pockets.

“No,” the doctor called back over the noise of the boiling kettle. “You know the drill, Sherlock – no caffeine, no nicotine, no narcotics...”

“Oh for  _god_  sake! You’ve already ransacked my room and invaded my personal space! How many times-”

“Humour me,” John muttered humourlessly, setting two mugs down on the low coffee table before Mycroft and Lestrade.

Mycroft turned his whole torso away in distaste as Greg reached forward for his mug, mouth set in a thin line of disapproval.

Lestrade’s lips quirked in amusement. “Are you really shunning me because I drink coffee?”

“I was under the misguided impression that you had better taste than that, Inspector,” said Mycroft with a sniff. “In answer to your question, yes. I am shunning you because you drink coffee.”

Finding the utter ridiculousness of the situation unbearable, Lestrade gave a bark of loud, unrestrained laughter before he was able to control himself. Which was swiftly followed by another, and then a long succession of exceptionally unattractive sniggering, before ending up as a peculiar and very painful-sounding giggling-hiccupping-cough.

With a resigned roll of the eyes, Mycroft removed the mug – the contents of which were mostly everywhere but where they were supposed to be – and gave the choking inspector several hard thumps on the back, trying not too hard not to look smug.

Tea would  _never_  do such a thing.

"Well, I did tell you," Mycroft mimicked softly once Lestrade's life was no longer being threatened.

Lestrade raised an eyebrow. "Are you teasing me, Mr Holmes?"

"Not in the slightest."

A smile passed between them before they looked away, each privately wondering it was suddenly necessary to do so and where the stifling humidity had come from.


	5. Anaesthesia

** Chapter Five: Anaesthesia. **

****

To begin with, Greg had thought that it would be the same as every other ‘get-together’ with Sherlock’s brother, following the same well-worn pattern that they had somehow set up between them; Mycroft sat, always alone in a deserted cafe, with two mugs and a pile of manila folders set before him. Lestrade would always arrive exactly on time, although it always felt as though he was late, take up the opposite seat and drink his cooling tea as Mycroft ignored his, and, together, they would discuss the various people and cases that Sherlock was about to encounter in the near future. As time went by, they gradually changed from being strictly business meeting to something that was actually looked forward to; by regular standards, the time they spent together could by no means by considered ‘intimate’, but the unexpected ease with which they could – in those few minutes – exist together provided a relief that, for one reason or another, they lacked beyond the cafe.

“Afternoon, Mr Holmes,” said Lestrade cheerfully, shutting the cafe door behind him with a jingle.

The lack of Mycroft’s uniform response of, “Good afternoon, Detective Inspector,” made Greg falter. “What’s wrong?” he demanded, crossing the chequered linoleum in just a few short strides.

Mycroft refused to meet his gaze, grey eyes fixed upon the large mug cradled between his hands.  

  1. Greg noted with a growing trepidation that half the tea had already been drunk. Mycroft never drank tea in cafes.   



“I have some…difficult information to impart, Inspector,” said Mycroft stiffly, finally raising his head to meet Lestrade’s eyes.

Something heavy plummeted into the pit of his stomach as the inspector recognised that particularly foreboding expression of discomfort and guilt. His mouth having gone suddenly dry Lestrade raised his mug to his lips and drank deeply. The tea was stronger and sweeter than usual. Meant as an anaesthetic, presumably.

“Spit it out, Mycroft.” Short and sharp – that was the best approach for most things.

The single folder was pushed halfway across the table, although Mycroft did not take his hands away, as though he were in two minds about giving it to the other man. Lestrade resisted the urge to snatch. Mycroft hesitated, then, “It’s… it’s concerning your wife.”

“Caroline?”

“Yes.”

“What about her? Is she okay?”

“She’s fine,” Mycroft replied, drawing out his words with excruciating slowness. “In a manner of speaking, anyway…”

“Oh for f-” Patience shattering beyond hope of redemption, Lestrade reached out and swiped the folder from beneath Mycroft’s fingers. Almost tearing the flimsy cardboard in his haste, Lestrade fumbled with the flap before pulling out the contents. 

Mycroft watched as the inspector examined the photographs with an entirely blank expression, his ring tapping tunelessly against the china mug in an unconscious betrayal of his discomfort. 

After several long moments, the photographs were replaced carefully into their folder and Lestrade sat back, struggling with which of the hundred questions he should ask first. He settled on, “Why have you got these?” 

Up to that point, Mycroft had always found it secretly difficult to imagine Inspector Lestrade as a formidable force of the law; however, the clipped tone and sharp edge to his expression left him in no doubt in this regard. He was also fairly certain that the truthful answer of, ‘I had your wife followed and spied on,’ would not go down well. He compromised with, “I was…concerned about you.” 

Lestrade was not placated.

“You had no right,” he hissed furiously, leaning forward. “ _Absolutely_   _no right_!”

Mycroft couldn’t really argue with that. “You needed to know.”

A bark of humourless laughter. “You just can’t resist, can you? You and your  _bloody_  brother! You can’t leave anything alone without sticking your noses in! What the  _fuck_  am I supposed to do now?” Lestrade threw up his hands, almost knocking his mug over. “What do I say? ‘Hello, Caroline, I know you’ve been cheating on me. How do I know this, you ask? Because the British  _fucking_ Government has had you placed under top level surveillance, that’s how!’ What the fuck, Mycroft?” he concluded. “What the actual fuck? You’ve gone and ended twenty fucking years of marriage and you try and tell me that you did it because you were  _concerned_  about me?”

As the volume of Lestrade’s voice rose, so did the irrational feeling of guilt in Mycroft’s stomach. It made no sense to feel such a way; he had done nothing but act out of good intentions. And yet, somehow, that was irrelevant. 

“I’m sorry,” he said sincerely. “If there’s anything I can do-”

“Yes, actually, there is.” Lestrade snarled, shoving his chair back and rising. “You, and your  _bastarding_  brother, can fuck off out of my life.” 

The incriminating folder was snatched up and Lestrade stormed from the cafe in even fewer steps than when he had arrived, leaving the dregs of his tea behind him.

~

 ** _DI Lestrade:_** Can I come over?

_Today, 20:07_

_**Mycroft Holmes:**_ Of course. I’ll put the kettle on. -MH

_Today, 20:08_


	6. Tea and Sympathy with Lady Grey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Following the discovery of the breakdown of his marriage, Greg escapes to Mycroft's for tea and sympathy.

** Chapter Six: Tea and Sympathy with Lady Grey. **

****

The kettle had almost reached the boil by the time Lestrade arrived at Mycroft’s Kensington flat. Well, the term ‘flat’ was used in the very loosest sense; if Lestrade had accidentally been magically planted there he would have been more inclined to believe he was in some sort of palace rather than a ‘flat’. As drained as he was, the inspector could not sit still. He wandered around the living room, he neck craned upwards as though transfixed by the high ceiling with its ornate wooden borders and extravagant, yet curiously simple, crystal chandelier, bumping into each and every soft furnishing on his journey.

“What do you want?” Mycroft called from the kitchen as the kettle’s switch clicked off.

“What’ve you got?” Lestrade was engrossed in touching the curtains – antique, velvet ones which just brushed the carpet.

The was an indistinct rattling as Mycroft, standing on tiptoes, rummaged through his tea cupboard and called out each label, “Lady Grey, chamomile, green-tea with jasmine, Oolong, Chai, Lapsang Souchong, Assam Mangalam…”

“I’ll just have Tetley’s, cheers.”

“I don’t keep Tetley’s.”

Lestrade turned away from the curtains and ambled across to the kitchen with a sceptically raised eyebrow. “You don’t keep Tetley’s?” he repeated as though it was the most absurd thing he had ever heard. “ _Everyone_  keeps Tetley’s.” 

“Tetley’s is not tea,” Mycroft informed him sternly, opting for the round tin of Lady Grey. “It is dust that has been scraped from beneath the sofa and put in little bags. This is good. This will make you feel better.”

Lestrade groaned and slumped against one of the many black-marble surfaces, running a despondent hand through his hair. “It’s gonna take a lot more than sodding  _tea_ , Mycroft.”

“Now now,” said Mycroft with a soft smile, “don’t be blasphemous.”

The inspector’s response to this was to put his forehead down on the counter and his arms over his head.

With a last empathetic glance towards the shattered man, Mycroft set about preparing the tea in silence.

Tonight was an occasion to break of the packet of Fox’s Classics he kept for emergencies.

~

Lestrade didn’t talk about his confrontation with Caroline and Mycroft didn’t ask him – being a Holmes certainly had benefits in delicate situations. Lestrade curled up in Mycroft’s favourite armchair, with the packet of Fox’s in his lap and a large tea pot by his side, and stared mutely at the television screen which was playing the entire series two of  _Lewis._ Mycroft pottered around the flat as though he did not have a heartbroken DI sitting in his living room. It was actually quite nice, he mused as piled up three days’ worth of plates on the draining board, having company that didn’t demand that he was on ceremony. It was just a shame it wasn’t under better circumstances. Perhaps they might do it again in the future... Perhaps. 


	7. European Tea, or the Lack of it

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking a break from the stresses of London, Greg finds himself without the means to brew a proper cuppa. Mycroft is adamant that this must be fixed.

** Chapter Seven: European Tea, or the lack of it. **

**   
**

**Subject:** [no subject] ****

 **From:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Date:** Wed, Feb 22, 2012, 19:46

 **To:** “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Detective Inspector Lestrade,

I thought it would please you to know that your wife, Caroline, is now officially your ex-wife Caroline and will no longer be bothering you in any way shape or form. Perhaps ‘pleased’ is not the correct term for your present state of mind, but I am sure by the time you return from your holiday and have space to think about it, it will be. What I mean to say, is that I hope you are enjoying your space and that you do not have to concern yourself with certain issues because they have been entirely cleared up and all that is left to attend to his your own state of mind.

Your possessions have been relocated into the temporary flat I managed to find for you in Kensington. As you may have gathered, the settlement received from Ms Jacobs was generous.

You may also be pleased to know that you have avoided the torrential downpour that has struck the South. I fear that my umbrella may wear out if it continues to this degree.

Regards,

Mycroft Holmes.

(mh@tiscali.co.uk)

 

~

 

 **Subject:** Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:**  “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Date:** Thur, Feb 23, 2012, 07:54

 **To:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Hi, Mycroft, good to hear from you and especially good to know that everything’s getting sorted! Cheers for helping out, by the way, you can’t imagine how much I appreciate it! Speaking of which, I think my dossing in your flat for a months calls for a little less formality between us, don’t you think? I think we’re both perfectly aware that each other are human now!

Kensington? Blimey, your people must be good! Maybe this break wasn’t such an extravagant waste of money after all! Thanks for finding me a place, I bet you’ll be glad to get me out your hair!

France is fantastic – weather’s not great, but it sounds a damn sight better than what you’ve in London! Could murder a cuppa, though… It’s such faff even to find a half decent tea-bag here! I’m afraid I’m having to resort to coffee. Don’t hate me!

Hope Sherlock’s behaving himself! Hope your umbrella doesn’t die!

Greg

~

 

 **Subject:** Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Date:** Thur, Feb 23, 2012, 17:13

 **To:** “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Mr Lestrade,

I suppose that is acceptable, although I admit that it will be hard to break the habit.

It was no problem in the slightest; once Ms Jacobs agreed to be cooperative it was, as they say, plain sailing. The lease for the flat is currently six months, but it can be lengthened if necessary without any issues.

Yes, Europe is infamous for its tea, or lack of thereof. It is, in fact, the predominant factor in my disinclination to travel more than is absolutely necessary. I can have a large box of Tetley’s delivered to you by nine o’clock tomorrow morning if you so desire? The thought of you being forced to resort to coffee is most upsetting.

Since when did my brother ever behave himself?

Mycroft Holmes

(mh@tiscali.co.uk)

~

 

 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:**  “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Date:** Fri, Feb 24, 2012, 10:26

 **To:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Mycroft, please don’t call me ‘Mr Lestrade’, I think that’s even worth than ‘Detective Inspector’! Thank you for the tea! Absolute life saver! Shame that I have to make it with UHT milk (no, that isn’t a request for a pint of fresh semi-skimmed before you have Anthea pop to the shops!) Will definitely be taking you out to dinner when I get back to show my gratitude! The coffee is though, I’ll bring you back some and perhaps I’ll be able to convert you? Probably not if you’re half as stubborn as Sherlock! Haha fair enough! I’ve sent Dimmock a note, so hopefully he’ll be able to keep him entertained until I get back!

Sun came out today, so have been spending a pleasant afternoon reading by the pool. You should feel honoured – I’m ignoring everyone else’s emails.

Greg

~

 

 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Date:** Fri, Feb 24, 2012, 12:07

 **To:** “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Gregory,

Are you sure you don’t want me to send milk? There are rumours circulating around the MoH that UHT is responsible for the recent increase in the number of people contracting cancer. It would be a shame, don’t you think, to go on holiday in order to recuperate only to return with an incurable disease. I will send milk at once.

Thankfully, Dimmock is not in possession of my mobile phone number, although I have been informed by Doctor Watson that Sherlock is…  _less than happy_  with the new team. I am following your lead by taking a holiday of sorts myself – I’ve temporarily blocked Sherlock’s number.

I do indeed feel most honoured.

Mycroft.

~

 

 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:**  “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Date:** Fri, Feb 24, 2012, 21:33

 **To:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Haha I suppose ‘Gregory’ is as close to informality as we’re going to get! The last time somebody called me that was in 75 when I punched Johnny Lisbon in the nose! Thanks for the milk, although I’m not sure the rumours that UHT milk causes cancer is *quite* accurate... I didn’t think you paid any attention to hearsay, Mycroft, considering the ease with which you normally acquire information? Anyway, the tea is wonderful and I am eternally indebted to you.

What’s the odds that Dimmock’s team is even less enamoured with having Sherlock snapping around their heals than your brother is with them? Can’t he just take a couple of weeks off to... No, actually scrap that – I think having a bored Sherlock knocking around the flat would drive John over the edge, poor chap.

Good to hear! Make the most of it!

Greg

~

 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Date:** Fri, Feb 25, 2012, 22:58

 **To:** “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Gregory,

I cannot imagine you involved in such anarchic dalliances, Detective Inspector, I am quite shocked by this new insight into your character.

If one wishes to brew a decent cup of tea, one requires proper milk. Yes, I did classify Tetley’s as ‘decent tea’ and no, you may never mention it again.

I called in on my brother yesterday evening and discovered their Cluedo board pinned to the wall at knife point. I am under the distinct impression that, despite Detective Inspector Dimmock’s best effort, he is failing to engage Sherlock’s interest. No doubt, it will be up to me to rustle up a case for him before too long.

Mycroft.

~

 

  **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:**  “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Date:** Sat, Feb 26, 2012, 09:14

 **To:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

You’d be surprised what an effect having three older brothers can have on an impressionable young lad, such as I was! Poor mum... I feel it only fair to warn you, by the way, that the last email has been safely stored  for future use ie. the next time you get uppity about Tetley’s.

Ah shit...Poor John! Hopefully something will turn up soon. There’s only so many bullets that wall can take!

Greg

~

 

 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Date:** Sun, Feb 27, 2012, 12:24

 **To:** “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

Gregory,

Sherlock is causing havoc in Devon. I have absolutely no idea what he is doing, but I have just been informed that he has broken into a military base using my I.D card. I despair of my brother, I really do; once upon a time, I laboured under the misguided assumption that he would grow out of his childish antics as he grew older, however it seems that he only gets worse.

How would you fancy joining me for a cream tea?

Mycroft.

~

 

 **Subject:** Re: Re: Re: Re: Re:Re: Re: Re: Re:[no subject] ****

 **From:**  “Greg Lestrade” <greg.lestrade@btinternet.co.uk> ****

 **Date:** Sun, Feb 27, 2012, 15:51

 **To:** “Mycroft Holmes” <[mh@tiscali.co.uk](mailto:mh@tiscali.co.uk)> ****

 **Priority:** Normal

\-----------------------------------------------------------------

If it’s a choice between the sunny south of France and the rainy moors of Dartmoor, how could I possibly refuse? Cream tea’s on you though! Tbh, I’ve just finished my last book anyway, so I could do with some Sherlock-Drama to keep me occupied.

I think I can see a helicopter about to land... I take it you’re responsible for this? Are you psychic as well as omnipotent?

See you in a bit!

Greg x


	8. A Question of Pronunciation

** Chapter Eight: A Question of Pronunciation. **

****

For once, it wasn’t raining on Dartmoor. It was such a rare, unheard of occurrence that Lestrade was  _almost_  certain that Mycroft’s seemingly infinite powers actually did extend to controlling the weather. Although it wasn’t as swelteringly hot as it had been in France, the early summer sun beat down and blanketed the little cobbled terrace in a gently comforting warmth on which the two men sat on rusted-iron patio furniture, heads tilted blissfully upwards, and basked.

It was almost too hot for tea.  _Almost._

Greg, as far as he was concerned, had done his duty; he had checked on Sherlock – who had been considerably less than pleased to see him – and had a furtive conversation with John concerning their movements in and around Baskerville, and now it was time to enjoy what was rightfully the remainder of his holiday.

The cottage acquired by Mycroft was small a small, quaintly south-westian granite-built double bedroomer in Widecombe – far enough away from civilisation for peace and quiet, but near enough to the local pub should it prove necessary. Greg was seriously considering migrating south when retirement came, they seemed to have their priorities straight. He fully intended to drag Mycroft down to the pub that evening for dinner; although the generally solemn government official was most certainly in much more relaxed mood than Greg had seen him in before, an inebriated Mycroft was a phenomenon that Lestrade was secretly looking forward to experiencing.

He glanced across at the other man who was sitting one leg crossed over the other with a book in his lap, brow furrowed slightly in concentration. Shirt-sleeve rolled up just beneath his elbows, top button undone, Greg was under the distinct impression that to be in the presence of Mycroft in such informal attire was a rare and honoured privilege that was granted to only the very few.

At this moment, Mycroft glanced up from his book and caught his companion smiling to himself inanely. The grey eyes narrowed, “ _What?_ ”

Lestrade looked away quickly, lips still quirked. “Oh, nothing. Just a contemplation.”

“Hmm.” Mycroft regarded him with deep suspicion, eyes falling back to the sentence he had just read twice. Then, without looking up, “Sc _one_  or scon?”

“Excuse me?”

“Sc _one_  or scon, which do you favour?”

The question was as loaded as the Glock 17 Lestrade kept in his desk and the detective inspector handled it with just as much caution. “Sc _one_ ,” he offered with just the slightest hint of trepidation, fully expecting a sniper bullet blast through an artery in his neck at any moment.

Mycroft seemed unmoved by his answer. “Hmm.”

This made Greg feel peculiarly skittish. “Hmm?” he echoed. “ _Hmm_? You can’t ask a question like that with ‘hmm’!” 

A delicate eyebrow was raised as Mycroft granted him his attention. “Can I not?”

“No! You absolutely can’t!”

“Might I enquire as to why?”

Greg pondered this, wondering how precisely to articulate what needed to be said, before bursting out with, “Because you are  _clearly_  judging me! You are either judging me for saying it wrong or judging me for saying it right and ‘hmm’ doesn’t explain anything!”

With a highly amused smile, Mycroft carefully placed a marker between the pages of his book before laying it down upon the rusted tabletop and giving Greg his undivided attention.

Lestrade was not comforted. With a scowl, he sat back in his chair and crossed his arms defensively over his chest with the sharp demand of, “Well, what do  _you_  say, then?”

Mycroft gave a low chuckle which creased the corners of his eyes and lips, “It depends on whichever pops into my head at the time, if you must know,” he admitted, smiling with amusement. “And I wasn’t judging, I was merely enquiring.”

“Hmm.”

“Now you’re doing it! Really, Gregory, the phrase ‘pot kettle black’ springs to mind...”

Greg had never been especially adept at forcing a straight face and there was something about hearing his name in Mycroft’s smooth yet slightly gravelly voice which sparked a smile on his own face.

“Talking of pot,” he said, rising, “fancy a refill?”

Mycroft handed him his cup with a musing, “It’s almost too hot for tea.”

“Almost.”


	9. A Crack in the Cup

** Chapter Nine: A Crack in the Cup. **

 

He couldn’t even say, in retrospect, that it had not gone according to plan because there had never been a plan. There hadn’t even been a thought, it had just sort of happened, out of nowhere like the proverbial bolt of lightening... although perhaps less inspired. And yet, as awful as he felt, Greg Lestrade could not regret what had happened.

~

Greg hadn’t heard from Mycroft in a week after returning to London, which was fine – he had a thousand things he needed to do concerning moving house and catching with whatever had been happening at work – but it felt  _odd_ , in a peculiar way that didn’t quite make sense, He checked his phone every few minutes, he opened his email more regularly than normal, he even rang himself from his landline just in case his mobile had stopped working (it hadn’t), and with every message he didn’t receive, his stomach gave a little flip of disappointment. Which made no sense.

What was even  _less_  logical was the fact that he couldn’t just call Mycroft himself. There was no reason for it, the majority of the social cups of tea had been arranged by himself, but every time he picked up the phone and thumbed through until Mycroft’s number came up some ridiculous instinct surfaced and made him put the phone down again.

It was only after he had given himself a very stern talking to - telling himself, on no uncertain terms, to man the fuck up – that he managed to finally compose a quick text and send it before his mind caught up with him again.

 

 ** _Greg:_** Just wondering if you fancied meeting up for a coffee any time soon to say cheers for sorting out the flat and getting she-who-must-not-be-named off my back youre probably busy so dont worry if not but let me know. Cheers. Greg.

_Today, 17:43_

Lestrade just about managed to distract himself with unpacking his kitchen equipment for a good two hours before the irritation with his silent phone got the better of him. He snatched the offending object up, deftly dialled Mycroft’s number and waited impatiently for the dialling tone to give way to a human voice.

_‘Hello?’_

“Hi, it’s me. Greg,” said Greg, hoping the irrational thumping in his chest was inaudible.

 _‘Yes, I know.’_   He could hear Mycroft smiling on the other end of the line.

“Obviously. Of course you do...Well, I was just calling because... Did you get my text?”

_‘I’ve been in meetings all day, I’ve only just switched my phone back on. Was it important?’_

“No. No, not particularly. Was just wondering if you fancied meeting up for a coffee and a catch up any time soon?”

_‘Let me just see...’_

“It’s okay if not,” Greg added quickly, pacing around his new living room. “I know you’re very busy at the moment, so-”

_‘I’m in the Diogenes tomorrow from five, you’re welcome to join me if you wish?’_

A wave of what appeared to be relief flooded through Greg, dousing the irritation that had been growing for the last week. “Yeah, that sounds great. I’ll pop by after work.”

 _‘Good,’_  said Mycroft, sounding like he meant it.  _‘I shall look forward to it. Until tomorrow then, Gregory.’_

“Okay, see you, bye. Bye.”

One day, Lestrade swore to himself, throwing down his phone in disgust. One day, eloquence would come when he needed it to.

~

It was as though the last week had never happened – although what it was that  _had_  happened, Greg was still uncertain – he sat in his usual chair and watched as Mycroft poured the tea in that precisely elegant way of his, with the curves of the wrist and the flexing of the fingers that Greg has always found more hypnotic than he would care to admit to himself, and chatted on in a seemingly endless ramble of words that weren’t quite making sense in Greg’s head.

“Are you quite alright?” Mycroft asked with a frown as he passed a cup and saucer over to Lestrade, who was still nodded and making noises of agreement. “I’m afraid you look rather ill and I’m not sure you’ve been listening to a word I’ve been saying.”

“Sorry,” Greg said with a sigh, stirring his tea absently with the little silver spoon. “Things on my mind.”

Mycroft cocked his head sympathetically to the side, “Caroline?”

“Hmm? Oh no. Feeling strangely okay about all that, actually...” Greg pondered this for a moment before adding, “Perhaps that’s why I’m feeling odd. Twenty years of my life has just been blown to pieces and I’m not a complete wreck, is that even healthy?”

“I’m probably not the right person to ask about such things,” said Mycroft with a wry smile, adding a lump of white sugar to his tea. “But surely, logically speaking, to feel good can only be a good thing?”

Greg shrugged, continuing to stir fervently. “I’m not sure ‘good’ is the right word for it.”

“Nevertheless, ‘not a complete wreck’ is most certainly a more desirable state of mind than ‘complete wreck.”

He was doing that teasing thing again, where it wasn’t  _quite_  teasing but it definitely was at the same time. The tea burnt his lips as Greg sipped, to ease the dryness in his throat more than out of desire. Desire... Oh fuck! Is that what it was?

Don’t be so fucking ridiculous, Lestrade!

And yet... Greg glanced up, wincing as the newly formed blisters on his lip made contact with the rim of his teacup; Mycroft was looking at him with the oddest expression, as though he had gone green or had started frothing at the mouth, with a single, delicately raised eyebrow and the concerned quirk of one corner of his mouth.

The raised teacup slipped suddenly from Lestrade’s fingers and fell to the floor, bouncing once before shattering neatly into three pieces, hot tea splashing up both their trouser legs

“ _Shit!_ ”

The two men jumped simultaneously to their feet and stared down at the broken cup.

Lestrade was mortified. “I am  _so_  sorry!”

“No, no, sit down,” said Mycroft, shaking his head. “I’m going to call John. You’re clearly ill. Look,” he put out a hand to touch Greg’s forehead, “you have a ridiculous temperature, Gregory, you ought to be in bed-”

And that was when it happened, the proverbial bolt of lightning.

For the briefest of moments, something made sense; the palm pressing firmly just above his eye line, the slender wrist so close that Lestrade could smell the subtle hint of lavender and vanilla which always seemed to drift three steps behind Mycroft... It was a heady combination which overpowered any sense which still remained.

Lestrade grabbed the wrist and half-pulled Mycroft forward, moving in the remainder of the way himself. In an ideal world, they would have lingered there for a moment – nose to nose in silent negotiation – before continuing.

But this was not an ideal world.

Their lips collided awkwardly, Mycroft’s body went rigid in horror and there was barely a second of contact before Mycroft wrenched his hand out of Greg’s, stumbling backwards in a rare moment of disconcertment. A brief flash of hurt crossed the younger man’s face before freezing into an icy expression of disdain.

Lestrade didn’t even give Mycroft the chance to demand a reason – there was none. Snatching up his jacket and draping it over his arm, Greg spun round and half-strode, half-ran from the visitor’s room, away from the Diogenes and away from Mycroft.


	10. Something Stronger than Tea

** Chapter Ten: Something Stronger than Tea **

****

“Shit!”

“Yeah.” Greg sighed, resting his chin on the sticky table-top and gazing morosely into the murky depth of a Saturday morning pint.

“ _Shit!_ ” John repeated, sitting back and trying to think of something more useful to say. “Why?” was the best he could come up with.

Lestrade made an inarticulate sound and shrugged. “It sort of made sense at the time. Fuck knows why though... I made a complete tit of myself.”

“What happened after you... you know-”

“Legged it, didn’t I? Better to retain at least a smidgen of dignity and leave of my own accord than get chucked out.”

John sipped at his Carlsberg. “You think that’s what would’ve happened?”

“What other outcome could there have been?”

“And you haven’t spoken since?”

Greg shook his head. “It only happened last night, but no, I haven’t heard from him and there’s no way in hell I’m texting first

Hiding his smirk at his friend’s childishness, John tried to remain serious. “It’s probably not the kind of thing you should try and sort out over text,” he suggested gently.

“Look,” Lestrade sat up, gulping back a good third of his lager before pointing a finger at Doctor Watson and continuing in a subtly slurred tone, “ _Look_ , if he wanted to talk about it,  _he’d_  contact  _me_.  _I’m_  not doing it – I’ve already made a right twat of myself. I just want to forget it ever happened, y’know?”

John couldn’t honestly say that he  _did_  know “To be honest, Greg, you didn’t exactly give him much chance to say anything – you’ve done a double head-fuck by coming onto him out of nowhere, and then ditching him seconds later. Not being funny, but you’ve been pretty dickish, mate.”

Lestrade let out a long, load groan, his head falling onto the table with a painful thud. “I was happily married a month ago! I think the world’s gone mad...”

“More than likely,” John said, nodding sympathetically.

They sat in a contemplative silence for a few long minutes, then John asked tentatively, “What d’you think would’ve happened if Mycroft had been... _receptive_?”

Lestrade raised his head very slightly, frowning. “Huh?”

“I mean...” the doctor hesitated, picking his phrasing very carefully, “Do you, you know, fancy him? Or was it just an ‘I’ve just broken up from my cheating wife’ kind of thing?”

Greg rubbed his forehead as though trying to erase a headache. “You make it sound as though we’re in high school...”

“The question still stands.”

“Oh  _god_ , I don’t know!” Lestrade groaned. “The thought hadn’t really occurred to me. I’m not gay though,” he added as the inevitable question began to form on John’s lips. “The fact that he’s a bloke sort of never really came into the equation.”

“But?” pressed John, sensing that this was something his friend needed to talk through aloud.

“But...but I like the way we are together when we hang out, when it’s just the two of us. good company, no pressure, decent banter...It’s not a bit like it was with Caroline, obviously, but it’s different to you and me hanging out, or being with the lads down the station. It was really good, and now it’s fucked,” Greg concluded eloquently.

“You’ve got to talk to him, you’ve no choice in the matter,” John told him sternly, leaning forwards. “Even if it’s just to clear the air. He’s Sherlock’s brother – there’s no way you’d be able to avoid him, even if you wanted to.” This last remark was accompanied by a very pointed look. “You’ve got significantly less to lose by confronting it than not.”

 “You’re right, of course.” Greg sighed heavily and reached into his jacket pocket, twisting awkwardly to reach his phone. “Better sooner than later, eh Doctor?” Heart thudding painfully in his chest, Lestrade tapped a quick message –  _Feel like a complete dick- can I buy you tea as a sorry? –Greg –_ and pressed  **send**  before he could rationalise himself out of it.

“Well done,” said John, patting him on the arm. “Let us know how it goes.”

Greg nodded, downing the last of his pint. “Don’t you fucking dare mention any of this to Sherlock,” he warned with deadly seriousness.

John gave a hollow laugh and mimed crossing his heart. “Although I accept no responsibility if he works it out for himself.”

~

 ** _Mycroft:_** Are you free any time today? Could we meet for coffee? M x

_Today, 11:48_

**_Harry:_** Elizabeth has ballet 12:30 – 13:30, I could meet you between then? There’s a French Cafe just over the road from the studio. Hope everything’s okay x

_Today, 11:52_

**_Mycroft:_** Ritherdon Road? Will be there, sitting outside. x

_Today, 11:53_


	11. The Necessity of Nicotine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft seeks comfort in an old friend.

** Chapter Eleven:  The Necessity of Nicotine **

**  
**

He watched from behind a double espresso and a half-smoked Mayfair as a tall, blonde man leaned down to kiss a little girl in a pink leotard goodbye, before turning and jogging across the road towards the cafe outside which he was sat. Mycroft raised a despondent hand in greeting.

Tripping up the three steps to the wooden veranda, Harry’s eyes drifted from the coffee, to the cigarette and finally settled on his friend’s worn face with an expression of disapproval. “You hate coffee,” he observed, pulling out the chair on the opposite side of the round table. “And you don’t smoke. Is the world coming to an end?”

“I’ve smoked in front of you before,” replied Mycroft smoothly, stabbing out what appeared to be in his fifth Mayfair.

“Yes, but not since...Ah.”

“Mmm.” He raised the espresso cup in a wry toast and drank deeply, trying to repress a wince at the unpleasant flavour.

Across the table, Harry shifted and scratched his nose. “Is it...the same?” he asked with some awkwardness.

For a moment Mycroft was silent – since last night, he had been desperate for human conversation, anything that would keep the hundred thoughts from tangling even further within the confines of his own head. Now, though, it seemed much less of a good idea. Still, he thought with an internal sigh as he pulled another cigarette from the crumpled packet on the table, it was too late to go backwards.

“Yes,” he said, placing the foam end between his lips and flicking up the lid of his lighter, “it feels the same.”

The blonde man watched with brow creased in concern as plume of white smoke rose and curled around them. He rose purposefully. “Right, you need tea. Give me a second.”

“I don’t want tea.”

“You _need_ tea.”

~

“So?” Harry pressed him gently, pouring out two cups of strong breakfast tea and pushing one across the table to Mycroft. “What’s happened? We never seem to speak unless it’s an emergency...”

Mycroft flushed, defensive. “That’s not true,” he objected guiltily. “It’s not the case at all, I-”

But his protestations were silenced by a dismissive wave of the hand. “It doesn’t matter,” said Harry lightly. “I know that it’s been hard for you. I _do_ understand, Mycroft.”

Mycroft could feel the tips of his ears beginning to burn. “Have my biscuit,” he muttered, half throwing the little plastic-covered biscuit onto Harry’s saucer.

 Tearing the red cellophane in one delicate twist of the fingers, Harry regarded his friend with a pitying expression. “Having one of those weeks again?”

“Something like that.”

The caramel-biscuit darkened several degrees as it was lowered briefly into Harry’s tea. “You _look_ fine. Well, maybe ‘fine’s not quite the right word...”

“Mmm.” The delicately crafted china cup held halfway to his lips, Mycroft considered the tea unhappily before placing it back down on its saucer. “Lestrade made a pass at me.”

Harry’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. “Lestrade? Your detective inspector?”

“Not _my_ detective inspector,” Mycroft mumbled, fiddling unconsciously with the ring on his right hand.

“But you like him.”

Mycroft bristled slightly, resenting the lack of a questioning inflection. “That is quite beside the point.”

“Is it?” Harry concealed his smirk behind the rim of his tea-cup.

“Yes,” said Mycroft firmly. “It is.”

“So, what’s the problem?” the other man asked. “It’s taken you long enough to find someone you could be even remotely interested in, I don’t see how – when you do – their reciprocating the feelings can be a bad thing.”

Mycroft shot him a brief, dark look before his eyes dropped to the ring he was still fiddling with. “Whatever feelings I may or not have,” he said stiffly, “that... _kiss_ is no indication that they are reciprocated. It was a reaction, nothing more. And I have absolutely no intention of being a ‘rebound’.”

At this, Harry laughed out loud, earning him another, even darker, glare. “You always have an excuse,” he mused with a chuckle.

Mycroft’s jaw tightened. “Indeed?”

“Yes,” replied Harry firmly. “For almost as long as I have known you, you have avoided getting involved with anyone. I understand why,” he continued before Mycroft could speak, “but it’s been twenty years. You owe it to you to give yourself a chance.”

Mycroft’s lips set into a single hard line, eyes cast steadfastly downwards – an uncomfortable heaviness settling in the pit of his stomach. He put out a hand for his cigarette packet again but was stopped by Harry reaching it first. He pulled back abruptly, heart juddering almost visibly beneath his shirt.

“Mycroft.” The voice, gently commanding, made Mycroft’s bottom lip disappear between his teeth. Harry hesitated momentarily, carefully contemplating how to phrase what he wanted to say, then, softly, “I don’t think it is him rebounding that is worrying you, is it?”

Mycroft was barely able to repress a wince. _‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’_ he wanted to say. But there was no point in lying. So he settled with silence.

“It’s been twenty years,” he heard Harry say again. He wiggled the ring over his knuckle then back again. “You’ve got to...you’ve got to forget about it.”

Mycroft had to swallow hard twice before being able to reply with a mumbled, “Why would it matter to you?”

“Petulance doesn’t suit you,” Harry pointed out reprovingly, picking up the tea pot and giving it a gentle shake before refilling their cups. “And it matters to me because it is both ruining our friendship and preventing you from moving on. And,” he sighed heavily, “as much as I know it’s my fault, I hate seeing you like this.” Harry’s eyes flicked from the tea down to Mycroft’s hands which were still toying erratically with the gold band. “You could start by taking that off,” he suggested in the tone he generally saved for coaxing inappropriate objects away from his daughters. “”It can’t help, looking at it every day.”

Mycroft brought his hands up close to his face, studying the simple gold band with a pained expression. It had been on his finger for half his life; he couldn’t imagine being without it. “Where’s yours?” he murmured, grey eyes not leaving his ring.

Harry shifted uneasily before admitting, “I don’t know. Presumably it’s knocking about somewhere. I didn’t throw it away.”

This did very little to make Mycroft feel better. “I don’t think I can do it again,” he admitted, his voice a barely audible mumble. “I don’t want to do it again...”

“Mycroft, you have got to put it into perspective,” Harry told him with a shake of his head. “Things like that...they are happen at university, but they don’t mean-”

The sudden appearance of a little girl in a startlingly pink leotard trotting up the wooden steps of the veranda put an abrupt end to their conversation.

With a high-pitched cry of, “Daddy!” she threw herself into Harry’s lap, spilling his tea across the table, before shuffling around to grin toothily at Mycroft. “Hullo!” she chirped. “I’m Liz’beth.”

It was all Mycroft could do to nod, mute, as he fought desperately not to let his dismay show. He looked to Harry, hoping that he would help him out, but the other man was already lifting Elizabeth from his lap and standing up.  

“It’s been good to see you,” said Harry with a smile as though they had been simply discussing the state of Asia. “We must catch up again soon.”

Without waiting for a reply, Harry put his arm around his daughter’s shoulders and walked away, crossing the road to where his car was parked.

As he watched them drive away, Mycroft let his head fall forwards into his hands, wondering how it was possible to feel even worse than he had an hour ago. He was no closer to knowing how he ought to handle the situation with Gre- Lestrade, and now all the unwanted feelings concerning the past were tangling with those of yesterday, the result of which was a rather excruciating headache.

Mycroft was as close to crying as he ever had been as an adult.

After a few minutes, his wallowing was disturbed by the short vibration of his phone which signalled a text message. It would be Anthea, he thought wearily, pulling the mobile out of his pocket. It would be Anthea warning him of an impending World disaster to which he must immediately give his full, undivided attention despite the fact it was Saturday, despite the fact he had rung her that morning and told her not to disturb him –

A delicate eyebrow was arched in surprise. It wasn’t Anthea.

**_DI Lestrade:_ ** _Feel like a complete dick- can I buy you tea as a sorry? –Greg_

_Today, 13:31_

Even more surprising was the smile tugging persistently at the corners of his lips as his eyes swept over the screen.

_I’d really like that. When and where? – M_

Lestrade’s response was almost instantaneous – _That place in Covent Garden in an hour? –Greg_

_See you there. –M_


	12. Reconciliation in Covent Garden

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would just like to say, thank you so much for the response to Chapter 11 - it meant the world to me ^_^ I'm really pleased with this project and I'm glad more people are enjoying it! (PS. I've written the last chapter!)

** Chapter Twelve: Reconciliation in Covent Garden ** **. **

 

Pushing his way through the mass of Saturday Afternoon tourists, all clamouring to acquire lunch from the same vendors, Mycroft managed to catch sight of Greg sitting at a table in a relatively secluded corner of Covent Garden’s open-topped cafe. For once he was grateful of the crowds; in places such as this, the busier they were, the more privacy they allowed.

Lestrade looked as though he had been sitting there a fair while, Mycroft noted from a hundred metres away, with a half-eaten sandwich and a seemingly empty cup of coffee in front of him.

He looked just about as jittery as Mycroft felt, which was marginally reassuring.

~

Greg raked absently at what he assumed was supposed to be a salad and wished fervently that he hadn’t got there quite so early; that morning’s pint with John was proving harder to shift than he had expected. He was trying to remedy with effects with caffeine and sustenance, but any good that they were doing seemed to be counterbalanced by the nerves, which seemed to be growing by the second.

If Greg was to be honest with himself – and, as a rule, he generally tried to be – he had sort of a bit hoped that Mycroft wouldn’t reply to his text, at least not as promptly as he had done. Greg had only really sent it to placate John, anyway. Skewering a rather pathetic slice of cucumber on the end of his fork, Greg sighed – John was right though, he _had_ been a dick and it was better to set it straight sooner rather than later. Theoretically.

On the dot of half-two, Greg looked up to see Mycroft’s head bobbing above a group of Japanese students, turning this way and that, looking for him within the packed square. He considered waving to catch his attention but, for some reason, thought better of it.

Mycroft smiled – a little awkwardly, Greg thought – as they finally caught each other’s eye and drew nearer. He sat down with a light, yet somewhat strained, “Beautiful weather.”

“I hadn’t really noticed,” said Greg, immediately wishing he hadn’t.

“Mmm.”

They sat stiffly opposite one another, both their eyes concentrating fixedly on the abandoned sandwich lying between them. Greg was fairly sure there was something metaphorical in that somewhere.     

“Can I get you anything?” Greg offered eventually. “What do you want? Tea?”

But Mycroft, to his surprise, declined with a shake of his head. “No, thank you. I honestly think I will drown, were I to consume any more tea.”

Lestrade laughed. “Is that possible? To have too much tea?”

Mycroft mirrored his smile. “I wouldn’t have thought so, but apparently.”

The ice – even if it hadn’t complete broken yet – was certainly thawing; a relief to both men.

“Look,” said Greg, taking the plunge and leaning forwards, almost putting his elbows in the coleslaw, “about last night-”

Mycroft froze and looked immediately away. Every instinct his possessed made him want to just wave it away with a dismissive, _‘It’s fine, it’s fine,’_ but he forced himself to keep his mouth shut. Harry was right; it was time to give himself a chance.

“About last night,” Lestrade continued, hands locking together to prevent them from revealing his nervousness, “I was a _complete_ arse, and I’m really _really_ sorry.”

Feeling his heart take an uncomfortable plummet, Mycroft offered a mumbled, “Think nothing of it, Detective Inspector.”

The abrupt coldness in Mycroft’s voice  took Lestrade by surprise. The DI frowned. “Huh? What?”

“Whilst I do not pretend to fully grasp the logic of sentiment,” said Mycroft tersely, “I understand enough to know that incidents such as heartbreak can result in uncharacteristic behaviour.” He rose, every muscle in his body tense. “Do not concern yourself with what happened. We’ll say nothing more about it.”

Greg stared, open-mouthed in utter bewilderment, as Mycroft made to leave – this was absolutely _not_ what he had intended to happen.

“No, wait! Mycroft, wait!”

The younger man paused, an eyebrow raised in expectation.

Lestrade sighed. “Just...Just sit down and shut up for a moment, would you?”

The shock of being ordered to ‘shut up’ made Mycroft obey, although it was done so accompanied by a highly affronted glare.

With a long exhale, Greg raked his fingers through his hair – really not happy with his significantly increased blood pressure – before speaking. “Look,” He stopped, thought about it, then started again, “Look, what happened had _nothing_ to do with Caroline, or anything else for that matter. I’m sorry for the way it came about, I’m sorry for being a dick about it afterwards, but I didn’t do it because I’m fucked up in the head, I did it because I wanted to do it. It seemed to make sense at the time.” He gave a dramatic shrug, “Who knows, even if the shit with Caroline hadn’t happened, perhaps I’d have done it anyway. Pssht,” Greg finished eloquently. “That’s where I stand, anyhow. I don’t know about you.”

Mycroft knew that this was his cue to say his own piece, but how he could articulate what he wanted to say when he couldn’t even make sense of it in his own head? Deciding that the very worst thing he could do was say something he would regret, Mycroft instead chose to say nothing at all.

Greg waited with increasingly waning patience for the other man’s response; it had not been easy to say what had just been said ... Actually, fuck it – it had been one of the hardest bloody things Lestrade had ever put himself through! To admit to both himself and to Mycroft that it hadn’t been a mistake that was best forgotten, that maybe he had actually meant it... And all that Mycroft could say in response was...Nothing.

“Mycroft, for fuck sake! Just say something!” Greg hissed, unable to bear the brunt of the silence for another moment. “Just tell me to piss off if that’s what you want, but say something!”

The pleading tone in Lestrade’s voice did nothing to ease the flow of Mycroft’s words. He was acutely aware that he was freezing up – mute and cold and rapidly becoming irreversible. He could see Greg’s frustration with him rising – could even understand it – and the relief and appreciation evoked by his friend’s confession was acute. And yet, as each potential reply presented itself, Mycroft could feel them choking him, ruining any chance of salvation they might have. If he had had the control of his body, he’d have certainly stomped his foot by now.

Taking a deep, calm-inducing breath, Greg sat back, determined to make at least some sense of the matter before giving up completely.

As different as the Holmes brothers were to one another, they both possessed the same insatiable need to claim the last word. In short, Greg had never witnessed Mycroft Holmes being lost for words, and he was finding the experience disconcerting to say the least. Not to mention the fact that Mycroft would usually have no problem with telling him where to get off, if that was what he wanted, nor would he have agreed to meet in the first place if...

Lestrade distinctly felt as though he was a pioneer on the borders of new, unexplored territory. Caution seemed to be the best tool for this job.        

“Okay,” he offered, businesslike, “how about _I_ talk and you either nod or shake your head? It doesn’t look like we’re going to get anywhere otherwise.”

Mycroft blinked, having been fully expecting Lestrade to have said ‘fuck it’ and stormed off long ago. Swallowing, he nodded hesitantly, twisting his ring beneath the table.

“Right.” Lestrade shuffled in his seat, twisting the kinks from his neck, before going on, “Right. We get on, don’t we? When it’s just us, it’s easy. Not that I’m saying it’s not when there’re other people, I mean, sometimes when it’s just two it can be awkward, right? But I’ve never found that with you and me. And apart from being an interfering bastard, you were fantastic helping me through the shit with Caroline – you didn’t have to, and it wasn’t just the practical stuff and I really appreciate it. Anyway,” again the hand through the hair, “I would...I would probably go so far as to say I consider you to be my best friend and that, wherever it is we go from here, I _really_ don’t want that to stop. I don’t want to go _backwards_!” His speech culminated with an earnest climax and a silent plea.

The anxious expression that had creased Mycroft’s finally began to soften. “I don’t want to go backwards either,” he admitted quietly.

Greg didn’t even try to hide his relief. “I thought you weren’t talking?” he teased gently.

Mycroft’s lips twitched into a smile. “Some things need to be said.”

“So, we’re good?”

“We were never not good,” Mycroft replied with a small, lopsided shrug. “Just temporarily glitched.”

“And last night?”

There was a slight hesitation. “May I have the time to consider it?”

Lestrade grinned. “I think we both need time to consider it.”

“Mmm. I think it took you by surprise as much as it did me.”

“More, I expect.”

A companionable laugh drifted between them, vocalising their mutual pleasure that nothing had been permanently damaged.

“Are you very busy this week?” Greg asked, sitting back more comfortably.

Mycroft tilted his head noncommittally. “Not desperately. But you never know who’s going to declare was who or how the Spanish will take the French eating the last biscuit in the Embassy.”

“May I take you out to dinner tomorrow? I said I would for helping me out, remember?” Greg added quickly.

Mycroft smiled warmly. “I’d like that.”


	13. Even the British Government Needs a Wingman

** Chapter Thirteen: Even the British Government Needs a Wingman ** **. **

 

  ** _Greg:_ ** Booked the table for 8 at thatlittle Italian place off Piccadilly. Shall I pick you up or meet you there? – Greg.

 

 ** _Mycroft:_** I’m afraid I will be unable to meet our appointment this evening due to unforeseen nonsense at Downing Street. Sincerest apologies, Gregory. –M

 

 ** _Greg:_** Right. You could come over to mine when you’re done and we could order takeaway? Or shall we just rearrange completely? – Greg.

 

 ** _Mycroft:_** As I will be occupied with this matter indefinitely, I do not think it fair of me to impose myself upon you without due warning. A rearrangement would be best. Would Wednesday be convenient?-M

 

 ** _Greg:_** Wednesday is fine – I’ll call the restaurant now. But I reserve the right to be pissed off if you cancel again. Good luck with David! – Greg.

~

 ** _Greg:_** So, I’m sitting in the restaurant by myself looking like a sad loser. Please tell me you’re stuck in traffic. – Greg.

 

 ** _Greg:_** They’re offering me olives. Pity olives. Where are you?

 

 ** _Greg:_** fuck this ive judt drank a whole bottle of red you better have a fucking good excuse – nothing less than a world apoloclyps.

 

 ** _Mycroft:_** I’m so sorry, it’s been a hellish day. I fell asleep at my desk and my secretary failed to wake me. I hope you are not too put out. –M

 

 ** _Greg:_** shall i come over? i’d bet money that you haven’t eaten

 

 ** _Mycroft:_** No no. I’m exhausted – I’d be terrible company and I don’t want to spoil your evening any more than I already have. –M

 

 ** _Greg_** : im coming over

 

 ** _Greg:_** mycroft this is bullshit! if youre not going to answer your door you could at least have the decency to pick up your phone!!

 

 ** _Greg:_** i will sit here until you  talk to me i have no problem with annoying your neighbours

 

 ** _Greg:_** now i know youre awake! very mature getting your PA to remove me

 

“Get in the car, Detective Inspector.”

“No. Mycroft must learn to do his own dirty work.”

“Mr Holmes is ignorant of the fact I am here. I have come of my own accord.”

“Well, now you can leave of your own accord too.”

“Get in the car Detective Inspector.”

“ _Shit!_ ”

~

“Here.”

Greg accepted the takeaway cup with blatant suspicion. “What’s this?”

Anthea shot him a withering look, slipping her blackberry into her handbag. “Coffee. Black, two sugars. It will sober you up.”

Greg lifted the lid and sniffed, as though expecting to find traces of a sinister drug. He couldn’t. “You know I strongly object to this,” he pointed out, surrendering and raising the cardboard rim to his lips.

“As I said,” replied Anthea sweetly, “Mr Holmes is entirely unaware of this meeting. And I would be thankful if he were to remain so,” she added pointedly.

“He’ll find out when he reads my texts.”

“That particular message was never delivered,” came the smooth response.

Greg thought it would be in his best interest not to argue with her. Crossing his legs, he sat back and turned his face towards the window, watching the flickering street-lamps pass by. “Where’re we going, then?”

“Nowhere in particular.”

“Right... I don’t suppose you could just drop me home?”

“Eventually.”

Greg suppressed a dark mutter by drinking deeply. For the right-hand woman of the most influential man in Britain, Anthea was one of the most unhelpful people Lestrade had ever come across.

The car took a left and began to head out of the city.

Once they had passed over the bridge leaving London, Anthea turned to address Lestrade. “What are your intentions towards my employer, Detective Inspector?”

“ _Excuse me_?”

“ Your intentions,” Anthea repeated with exaggerated slowness. “Romantic or otherwise.”

“None of your bloody business, that’s what they are!” Greg snapped, in no mood to participate in this ridiculous conversation. “Does such a thing as a private life even exist to you people?”

Anthea did not seem fazed by Greg’s indignation in the slightest. “As I am sure you will understand, Inspector Lestrade, my interference only stems from concern for Mr Holmes’ wellbeing. And out of respect for you,” she added, much to Greg’s surprise. “Mr Holmes thinks very highly of you and his judge of character is rarely misplaced. However,” there was a beat of hesitation, “I worry that certain... _feelings_ may be impeding his ability to conduct himself as usual at present.”

“Are you trying to tell me to back off because I’m stopping Mycroft from doing his job?” Lestrade demanded, pressing the plastic lid onto his cup with a little too much force. “Because, to be perfectly honest with you, I’ve got no fucking idea-”

“Inspector Lestrade, if you would allow me to continue?” Anthea cut through smoothly with a delicately raised eyebrow. Greg shut up. “I am merely trying to ascertain whether or not the distraction is worthwhile and, if not, to ask you to reconsider your relations. I am in doubt that you care for Mr Holmes and, as such, would wish to avoid doing any permanent damage.”

Greg sincerely wished she would speak plainly.  “What do you think I’m going to do?”

“I know you will do what you believe to be right,” Anthea replied, her tone as close to friendly as it was ever likely to be. “But it wouldn’t necessarily follow that it would be the right thing.”

“Is this not a conversation Mycroft can have with me himself?”

“No,” Anthea said simply. “Mr Holmes is... not particularly well acquainted with affairs of the heart, particularly his own. And even the British Government needs a wingman.”

Despite the young lady’s poker-straight face, Greg was pretty sure that was almost a joke. _Almost_.

“How am I supposed to know these things if Mycroft doesn’t tell me?” he pointed out. “I’ve tried to have a discussion with him about this, which was hopeless. He’s stood me up twice for dinner. _I’m_ not the one who’s not trying here.”

“No, I believe you,” said Anthea earnestly. “As I said, I know that you will do what you believe to be the right thing. What I am asking you is to be sure of yourself before leading Mr Holmes on.”

Greg bristled indignantly. “I’m not-”

“Not like that. I mean, it would be wholly unfair to encourage feelings of a romantic sort if you are uncertain that that is the road you want to follow. Similarly, if that were something you would seriously – and I mean _seriously_ – you must be prepared to be infinitely patient. Either way,” she inspected her nails in the weak light of the car, “you must be certain yourself first.”   

“You seem to know a great deal of information about Mycroft’s personal life for a PA,” Greg observed frostily, although her words had certainly given him a great deal to think about.

“Do you know what ‘PA’ stands for, Detective Inspector?”

Wincing, Greg turned away with a muttered, “Point taken.”

“And the rest?”

“Yes, also those,” he conceded with a nod.

Anthea gave a slight smile and leaned forward to speak to driver. “We can return the detective inspector home now.”

As they headed back towards the city, Greg carefully contemplated Anthea’s advice. He had never imagined that this would become so serious, but she was right – it couldn’t be treated superficially. He glanced sideways at Mycroft’s young assistant, who had returned her attention back to her blackberry. Whichever way this went, one thing was certain – Anthea would be scrutinising every move he made and it would _definitely_ be more beneficial to have her as an ally than an enemy.

She caught his eye and smiled reassuringly. “If I thought you were going to be damaging, I wouldn’t have even bothered to have this conversation with you. I believe we were on the same page, certain things just needed to be established. Here, take my number," she passed him a folded piece of paper. "I think we ought to stay in touch."

~

“He likes you, you know,” said Anthea just before Greg closed the car door. “Just so that you are aware of the facts.”

Greg gave a short laugh. “What are we, thirteen? Good night.”

But despite his dismissive words, he couldn’t pretend that the little flip his heart did, as he put his key in the lock, hadn’t happened.


	14. Repentance with Tetley’s

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Anthea puts her foot down, Mycroft grovels and Greg makes the tea.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Cxionbonan for putting up with my moaning and giving me much help <3

** Chapter Fourteen: Repentance with Tetley’s, **

 

“What time is the meeting with the American Ambassador?”

Anthea didn’t look up from her Blackberry to reply, “The meeting has been postponed until the fifth.”

Mycroft glanced across with a frown. “Why? They’ve been pestering me for an appointment for weeks.”

“Change of circumstance, sir.”

He pursed his lips, turning his face towards the window. “Indeed.” There were very few people with the ability to arouse the suspicions of Mycroft Holmes – there wasn’t _much_ that could get past his borderline omniscience – but Anthea had learnt from the best, unfortunately, and was more than capable of using Mycroft’s tricks to her own advantage.  He _knew_ that the sudden silence from Lestrade last night could be traced directly back to his assistant, although he had no idea how she would’ve known what was going on, or what she had said to him.... nor did he have the faintest idea how the subject should be broached now.

“Anthea-”

“Your appointment with the PM tomorrow morning has also been cancelled,” she spoke over him, thumbs tapping erratically at the tiny keyboard. “As has everything in your diary up until two pm tomorrow afternoon.”

Mycroft’s eyes narrowed. “Why?”

 “Change of circumstances.”

Her uncooperativeness was beginning to become trying. “ _Whose_ circumstances?”

She glanced up with a placid expression. “Yours.”

Mycroft could feel his ears beginning to burn. “Excuse me?”

“Matters of more urgency which require your full and immediate attention have surfaced, so I have rearranged your schedule accordingly.”

“Immediate matters such as...?”

“Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Her tone was no different than it would have been had the answer had been ‘Boris Johnson’.

Mycroft gave an involuntary twitch. “Oh for f-”

Anthea threw her employer a quick, withering glance, “Mr Holmes, the manner in which you and Inspector Lestrade have been dancing around one another is both  unhealthy and unnecessary,” she informed him sternly. “And, with respect, sir, it appears to be you who is doing the majority of the dancing.”

Having opened his mouth to protest, Mycroft realised – correctly – that it would be a futile attempt and shut it again.

“Taking some time to attend to your personal affairs will not put the nation in jeopardy,” Anthea continued more gently, “and I do not believe that it can end badly. Despite your best efforts, sir, the detective inspector has yet to be put off.”

“Mmm.” Mycroft turned his head away from her, long fingers drumming thoughtfully on the door handle on which his hand was resting. “So it would seem.”

~

 ** _Unknown:_** Cancel any plans you have for this evening. –A

_Today, 11:22_

**_D I Lestrade:_** I’m not cancelling anything if I’m going to be stood up again.

_Today, 11:35_

**_Unknown:_** Trust me. –A

_Today, 11:35_

_~_

**_Greg:_** Sorry John, gonna have to put tonight on hold – something’s come up.

_Today, 12:03_

**_John W:_** No worries, I’ll be out with Mike anyway if you change your mind. Headway been made with M?

_Today, 12:18_

**_Greg:_** Ok I’ll let you know if/when it all falls to shit again. Potentially, but we’ll see. Not expecting anything – details very hazy. Heard it from A so no idea what’s going on tbh.

_Today, 12:32_

**_John W:_** Good luck! Let me know how it goes.

_Today, 12: 39_

**_Greg:_** Cheers, will do. Probably see you later.

_Today, 12: 47_

~

Lestrade looked up from the television as his intercom buzzed. It was just gone nine and he had already decided that, after this match had finished, he’d take John up on his offer and meet up with him and Mike at the pub. Despite Anthea’s assurance to the contrary, Greg hadn’t _really_ been expecting guests.

Struggling to his feet semi-reluctantly, Lestrade picked up the receiver. “Hello?”

 _‘Hello? It’s me, Mycroft,’_ said Mycroft, his voice indistinct through the earpiece.

His nervousness was audible and Greg couldn’t help but smile as he pressed the door-release. “Alright, come up.”

He felt oddly normal, Lestrade noticed with mild interest as he unbolted and opened his front door, waiting for Mycroft to appear on the stairs – nowhere near as nervous as he had been waiting in Covent Garden. He felt on top of things, that’s what it was. Made a bloody change...

Folding his arms on the banister of the landing, Greg leaned over to greet the top of Mycroft’s head. “I didn’t think you were coming.”

Mycroft froze, three steps from the landing–he had been preparing himself mentally for their meeting and the suddenness of Greg’s appearance had swiftly undone any progress that he had been able to make. Fingers tightening around the handle of his umbrella to prevent himself from biting his lip, he looked up to where Greg was draped over the banister and offered a self-conscious smile in return, not quite sure of the correct to response to such a greeting.

 “Feeling better?”

A frown creased Mycroft’s brow. “Pardon?”

“Feeling better?” Greg repeated. “You know, after having such a hectic week.”

“Ah.”

At least he had the decency to look abashed, Lestrade noted with a hint of satisfaction.

Mycroft climbed the last remaining stairs slowly, using his umbrella to lever himself up as though he were climbing a particularly difficult mountain. Standing on the edge of the landing, Mycroft spoke very slowly to his shoes, “I have behaved atrociously towards you and...I can only try to apologise for...” sighing heavily, he rubbed his forehead, “for being a complete dick,” he concluded, raising his eyes with a rueful shrug. “Here is my peace offering.”

Greg reached out with a questioning look to accept the Tesco carrier bag that was being held out to him, and then laughed as he peered inside. “Really?” he pulled out a small, blue box and held it up to examine it. “Tetley’s?”

“I wondered whether or not you might like to educate me?”

Touched by the sincerity of the gesture, Greg closed the distance between them and briefly grasped Mycroft’s shoulder. “You don’t need to apologise, I do understand.” The words of reassurance seemed to do their job – beneath his touch, Lestrade felt Mycroft relax somewhat, the tension in his expression softening into a relieved smile.

~

Following Greg through into the kitchen, Mycroft lingered behind him – eyes roaming analytically over the flat. It still smelled new and there were piles of unpacked boxes stacked in the hall, but the potential homeliness was apparent nonetheless and Mycroft couldn’t help but feel a little bit proud that he had had a hand in helping along the conception of Greg’s new life.

Flicking the switch of the kettle, Lestrade turned and leaned back on the counter, watching Mycroft scrutinise his flat. “What do you think?”

The other man nodded appreciatively. “I like it. It’s certainly coming along.”

“Slowly. _Very_ slowly now I have no-one to pester me to do things.” Greg turned his back and busied himself with tea preparation, throwing two round bags into a couple of his most chipped and tea-stained mugs.

The barely perceptible hitch in Lestrade’s last comment, as flippant as it was spoken, made Mycroft hesitate as he wandered through to join him in the kitchen, feeling suddenly very much as though he were intruding upon a particularly private thought.

“Is it hard?” he asked softly, standing by Greg’s side at the counter. “To get used to it?”

Lestrade did not look up to reply; instead he busied himself with retrieving the half-pint of semi-skimmed from the fridge. “Yeah, I suppose it is,” he said, crouching down to peer into depths of the bottom-shelf. “I mean, obviously when you’ve had twenty odd years to grow accustomed to something, and then suddenly it’s gone...” he straightened up, milk in hand, and trudged back to the boiled kettle. “I suppose it does take a while.”

“It’ll get easier,” Mycroft offered tentatively – whether it was true or not, he was uncertain, but it seemed to be what was normally said in such situations.

“Yeah.” The conversation was closed. Greg snatched up the kettle and filled the mugs almost to the brim with steaming water.

Mycroft bit his lip and watched, sideways-on, as Greg’s hands travelled deftly from kettle to mug to teaspoon. His movements were brisk and slapdash, with none of the fine precision Mycroft used when brewing tea, and yet Mycroft could recognise a certain unrefined elegance there, even in the way the milk was poured haphazardly into the mugs, turning the tea a weak grey colour.

Having completed his task, Greg pressed one of the mugs into Mycroft’s hands with a wry, “Enjoy!”

He watched with an amused smile as Mycroft raised the mug to his lips and took a dutiful sip. The slight wince did not escape his attention. “So, what do you think?”

Mycroft lowered the tea with a contemplative frown, licking his lips thoughtfully. “It’s...”

“Disgusting?”

“Different, I think is the word one tends to employ under such circumstances.”

Greg laughed, raising his own mug in a toast, although the lightness didn’t quite reflect in his eyes.

“You know,” he said, taking a deep sip, “I ought to be pretty pissed off at you.”

Mycroft felt his heart take an uncomfortable plummet. “ ‘Ought to be’?”

“Yeah, considering the whole ‘you standing me up’ thing...” despite the flippant tone, Greg’s words were serious and Mycroft could see the weight of the impact last week’s events had had on him.

“I’m sorry,” he said honestly, doing his best meet the other’s eyes. “The intention was there, I promise you...”

“But?”

“But,” Mycroft swallowed hard, gaze falling to his feet. “But...when it came to it...It wasn’t that I didn’t want to, or that I changed my mind, not in the slightest, but...” The truthful answer of ‘I was scared’ didn’t seem an adequate enough response, so Mycroft gave up and shut up instead. It had been foolish of him to hope that this conversation would not surface, and despite the fact that he had spent a good hour or so pacing around his flat thinking up witty and clever responses, Mycroft felt as unprepared for it as ever.

“So what?” Greg pushed, setting his tea down upon the counter and folding his arms over his chest. “So what happens now? We sort things out, again, clear the air, again, and make plans. Then you, despite your _best_ intentions and your PA assuring me that, yes, you are interested, will freak out and here we will be, again, no further forward than before.” He hadn’t expected to become cross. He had, in actuality, given the matter a great deal of thought and had come to the conclusion that he did, in fact, empathise with Mycroft’s position – whether he fully understood it or not. But now they were here together, Greg couldn’t help but feel irritated both at the way the situation had progressed and the way in which it appeared to be going. It was not okay, and Lestrade was not about to pretend that it was. “Fucking hell, Mycroft,” he sighed, “I’ve got even less of a clue than you do! I’ve bared my heart and soul... and I can’t _do_ any more.”

Grey eyes flickered part way up, lingering at Greg’s shoulder, not daring to go any further. “I...I don’t know what I should say...”

Lestrade groaned out loud, frustration peaking. “Say what you _want_ to say, if that’s at all possible! Say what you feel, say what you think! I don’t care, but say something!”

His own gaze, fierce with intent, stole Mycroft’s and held it fast with the tenacity of a Rottweiler.

The younger man swallowed hard, knowing that there was no other choice than to... But it was impossible, he couldn’t find the words and even if he could he was barely able to breathe let alone speak coherently and what if... and even if not, what if it were like last time, or if he were mistaken and it was completely misplaced...

Every muscle in Mycroft’s body tensed. Slamming down his mug on the table beside him, he covered his face in his hands and simply shook his head frantically in reply. The frenzied movements combined with the tightness in his chest, making his head whirl with dizziness.

“Whoah!”

Mycroft felt hands grabbing onto his waist, holding him up as he stumbled backwards and almost lost his balance, his own hands never leaving his face.

“Mycroft-”

“No.” He tried to pull away, struggling half-heartedly. “No, I’m fine. It’s fine.”

The hands, unconvinced, did not budge. “Well, clearly not,” he heard Greg say, his voice somewhere close to his ear. “Come on.” One of the hands moved only to reposition itself once again on Mycroft’s wrist, its touch light and as beseeching as the plea which accompanied it, “Look at me.”

Lips pressed together, eyes shut tight, the rest of Mycroft’s body remained rigid and immobile as he his hands were gently lowered away from his face – unable to accept the position he was allowing himself to be put in.

Both hands were on his now, gripping them anxiously – trying, in a fruitless attempt, to prise his fingers from the fists in which they were clenched.

“What the fuck’s wrong with you?” Mycroft could hear the tremor in Greg’s demand, knew he was behaving ridiculously, knew he was doing nothing to help himself... “Seriously, you’re freaking me out, Mycroft, stop it.”

With great difficulty, Mycroft obeyed, forcing his eyes open and his hands to relax at least a fraction in a gesture of compliance.

Lestrade was wide-eyed with concern, peering into his face as though he had passed out entirely, threading his fingers through Mycroft’s as soon as he felt the muscles give even slightly.

They stood as they were for several infinitely long seconds, neither man willing to jeopardise the fragile moment by adding words.

“This is really difficult for you, isn’t it?”

“It shouldn’t be. Not in comparison...”

“Who’s comparing?”

Mycroft’s smiled gratefully, palms pressed against Greg’s broader ones, feeling the calluses and deep lines etched into the skin against his own.”Palm to palm,” he murmured as the words presented themselves from the back of his mind.

The smile was reflected and magnified back. “I’m afraid I’m a thousand miles from being a holy pilgrim,” Greg pointed out, running his thumb lightly over Mycroft’s.

“I think you’ll do.”  


	15. Subway on a Park Bench

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which John disapproves and Mycroft makes a confession.

** Chapter Fifteen: Subway on a Park Bench. **

****

The news that ‘The Mycroft Situation’ was progressing positively was not received as well by John as Greg had expected it to be. The doctor listened in silence, a deadpan expression upon his face and a Meatball Marinara in his lap, as Greg explained why he had not joined them for a commiserative pint the other night, and offered no comment of opinion once the story had been told.

The heady good mood that Greg had been revelling in was slowly giving way to annoyance at his friend’s blatant disapproval. His eyes narrowed and his lips pursed. “ _What_?”

John opened his mouth, hesitating between tact and voicing his thoughts. “Don’t you think...” he began very slowly. He shut his mouth temporarily as Lestrade raised a challenging eyebrow, but it was useless to think he could get away with it now, so he ploughed on, “Don’t you think it’s all going a bit fast?”

Greg bristled with indignation. “ _Excuse me?_ ”

“Well, it’s just...” John sighed, rubbing a hand across his brow. “You seem really _serious_ about this and I’m just worried that... Well, you only split up from Caroline not six months ago and you’re already going on about a new relationship.”

Greg winced inwardly at ‘relationship’. “ _So_?”

“So, I don’t think it’s healthy to be investing so much so quickly, especially with a-”

“A _what_?” Greg demanded, furious. “A bloke?”

John’s expression hardened. “A Holmes,” he replied flatly.

Greg stared at him from across his untouched Subway. “Please tell me you’re not being serious, John.”

The other pan pursed his lips and said nothing.

“What the _hell_?” Greg hissed, leaning towards him. “I can’t _believe_ you’re saying this to me now! What happened to being supportive? You were wishing me _luck_ the other day!”

“Yeah...” John shifted awkwardly. “But that’s when I thought it was just a bit of a post-breakup breakdown type thing. I didn’t think it would ever be... _reciprocated_.”

Greg’s nostrils flared. “You’re being a massive _knob_ , you know that?”

“I’m just trying to look out for you.”

“In what _way_ is that ‘looking out for me’?”

“You barely know him-”

“I know him a damn sight better than you do!”

“Yeah, but I live with Sherlock.”

“ _So_?” The utter absurdity of the conversation was making the volume rise to embarrassing levels. Luckily the ominous grey clouds that had been looming all day were keeping most people away from the park. “What has that got to do with _anything_?”

“Look,” John said quietly, trying to mollify his friend, “I’m just saying-”

“Well, _don’t_.”

“-that it isn’t easy and that I don’t think it’s a healthy thing for you to peruse right now. You need some time to yourself.”

Greg gave a bark of hollow laughter. “Says the man who almost literally jumps from woman to woman!”

John’s brow furrowed. “That is neither true nor the point,” he said stiffly, voice clipped with indignation. “ _And_ , might I add, completely below the fucking belt!”

Crossing his arms over his chest, Greg scowled. “This is a pointless conversation.”

“I’m just concer-”

“And _not_ one I’m prepared to continue,” Greg continued firmly, cutting him off. “I appreciate your concern, John, but it is entirely unnecessary.”

“But what do you actually _know_ about him?” John persisted. “Like, has he ever been in a relationship? Of _any_ sort? And if not, why not?”

“He’s not Sherlock, John,” Lestrade reminded him pointedly. “And it’s still _very_ early days-”

“But it’s _important_ ,” the doctor insisted. “Especially considering your own circumstances, you have to be twice as careful.”

Greg sighed, giving a noncommittal shrug. “I suppose there are conversations which ought to be had,” he agreed reluctantly.  

They sat stiffly beside each other in uncomfortable silence as John picked at his sandwich – Greg’s lay next to him, forgotten. He could understand, theoretically, what John was trying to say but it was far from what he had wanted and expected to hear when he was feeling so on top of the world - he didn’t need any extra doubts or niggles when they were still in the very sensitive, delicate first stages of whatever it was that they were doing.

At least that particular question hadn’t reared its ugly head – the dread ‘So, are you going out or what? _What are you_?’ that was the cause of so many problems that never needed to exist. He was happy, Greg decided, he was content – what else could matter any more than that?

“Detective Inspector.”

Greg’s heart flipped at the faintly gravelly, meticulously enunciated words that preceded their bearer. He raised his head with a welcoming smile, ignoring John’s muttered, “Speak of the devil,’ to see Mycroft leaning on his umbrella and looking down on them with an _almost_ entirely bland expression (Lestrade could swear there was just the faintest trace of a smile crinkling the corners of Mycroft’s eyes.).

Greg rose with an equally neutral, “Mr Holmes. What can I do for you?”

“I don’t mean to disturb you on your lunch break, Inspector,” said Mycroft with a slight tilt of the head. “I was merely wondering if you had the time to look over a couple of reports that have recently found their way to me. I would appreciate a second opinion, if you have the time.”

Lestrade opened his mouth for the customary, ‘Of course’, but was interrupted by a loud sigh and an irate, “Oh for god sake, I get the message! I’ll leave you alone then, shall I?” from John, who then grabbed the remnants of his Subway and stormed away, glowering.

A delicate eyebrow quirked at this peculiar reaction from the normally mild-mannered doctor, then Mycroft’s aloof appearance softened into something much warmer than Greg was accustomed to seeing – although it was definitely something he was gradually getting used to.

“I am under the distinct impression that I have displeased Doctor Watson,” Mycroft noted with a small smile of amusement.

Greg shrugged, raising his hands in an ‘I don’t even know’ gesture. “I think he’s just in a bad mood.”

Grey eyes met his own directly in that probing way both Holmeses had when reading between the lines. “Indeed?”

Lestrade could feel the heat rising up into his face. He dropped his gaze a fraction, breaking the seemingly telepathic connection Mycroft was trying to set up and said in a tone of feigned annoyance, “Now that you’ve gone and scared of my lunch partner, I hope you have a reason that’s more worthwhile than reports.”

Mycroft laughed, switching his umbrella to the other hand. “Yes, of course. I wanted to invite you to join me for lunch.”

Both sets of eyes fell to the abandoned Subway.

Deciding it was best to deny all association, Lestrade grinned and slipped to Mycroft’s side. “That sounds ideal. I’m starving.”

“Wonderful.”

They began to walk through down the leafy boulevard, a little closer together than was usual – not quite touching, but close enough to be acutely aware that they _almost_ were. Greg glanced sideways; Mycroft’s expression was deadpan and completely front facing although he could see his lips twitching in acknowledgment.

Smiling to himself, Greg looked down at the paving slabs disappearing beneath his feet as they walked on, watching their footsteps fall in with one another until they were perfectly synchronised.

“How did you know where I’d be?”

“Coincidence.”

“There’s no such thing as coincidence when it comes to you,” Greg pointed out.

They both glanced sideways at each other, eyebrows raised in an identical expression of amusement, before laughing and looking away.

“You are significant to me,” said Mycroft blithely. “Therefore it is only natural that you should be... _on my radar_.”

Greg wasn’t sure which point he ought to address first – the ‘significant’ comment, or the fact that Mycroft had a radar.  

“I’m not sure I like the idea of being on a radar...”

“Oh, it’s merely for the sake of practicality,” Mycroft assured him, as though that justified it. “It’s not invasive. Usually...” he frowned, then corrected himself, “Only with Sherlock but that’s because he’s impossible.”

“Fair enough.”

They walked on a little way, the park gates in sight. Greg thought about glancing at his watch, but decided he didn’t actually care about the time – work was tedious and there was nothing elsewhere he urgently needed to attend to.

The second question was jostling to the forefront of his mind and down onto his tongue. Lestrade bit it back for as long as possible, but the ever quickening of his heart-beat forced it from his lips in a muddled, “So...’significant’, hmm?”

Blood rushed to the tips of Mycroft’s ears. “Well...” he muttered, eyes fixed stoically ahead. “Well... is that not desirable?”

“I didn’t say that.”

Greg noticed little lines of pleasure crinkle beneath Mycroft’s eyes.

The younger man turned his face just a fraction of a degree to the left with a decisive, “Well then.”

This elicited a loud, short laugh from Greg, who unconsciously moved half a step to his right, their hands now barely an inch away from each other. “Well then indeed.”


	16. The Distance In-between

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's funny how almost losing something can make you realise how important it actually is to you," Caroline's blithe laugh made Mycroft wince internally.

** Chapter Sixteen: The Distance In-between. **

****

If you asked him, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to tell you what he had been doing when Sherlock had flown into the Diogenes – anxiety just glimmering behind an otherwise impassive expression – and grabbed Mycroft’s arm with a muttered, “Lestrade, hospital, come.” Nor could Mycroft accurately recall the time between being grabbed and ending up sitting in the backseat of the car Anthea just happened to have brought round just when it was needed.

She glanced behind with the same look of silent worry that Sherlock had before pulling away without even asking where it was she was taking them, attacking the London traffic with practised aggression.

He does remember Sherlock’s hand on his back which pushed him into his seat and the gradual return to his senses as every traffic light fought against their journey to the hospital. He remembers being aware that his hands were trembling in his lap and that his eyes, for some reason, were refusing to focus on one particular thing, matching his erratic thoughts as the anaesthesia of shock began to wear away.

“What happened?” he asked eventually, his own voice loud and echoing in his ears.

Sherlock’s voice was low and impassive, “There was an accident,” he informed him, his eyes meeting Mycroft’s unwaveringly. “On the way back from the case, we encountered a domestic. Lestrade, in his infinite wisdom, decided to interfere and, in doing so, managed to get himself shot. He took a bullet to the chest. John’s with him at the hospital now. His condition’s stable,” Sherlock added in answer to the question that Mycroft was too afraid to ask. “He was unconscious when I left to come here, but they are certain there will be no lasting damage.”

Mycroft turned his face away towards the window, doing his best to rationally process this information and breathe at the same time. It was not something that was coming very easily.

“He’ll be okay,” Sherlock repeated with more assertion. “Mycroft, there’s no use panicking. You’ll be of no use to him in a state.”

 _‘What use will I be anyway?’_ Mycroft felt himself nod, chewing intently on the tip of his thumb.

The ride to the hospital should’ve taken no more than fifteen minutes, but it seemed that fate was transpiring against them with buses remaining tenaciously in front of them, taxis misbehaving on all sides, seemingly suicidal pedestrians – London was doing absolutely nothing to sedate Mycroft’s nerves.

Beside him, Sherlock was also growing restless. “You’d think, with all your hard-earned omnipotence, that you’d be able to sort out all these bloody roads...” He leaned forward to address Anthea, “We’ll get out here at the next set of lights. This is ridiculous.”

She glanced doubtfully at him in the rear-view mirror. “Are you sure?” she tilted her head subtly in her employer’s direction with a question arch of an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s certainly a more productive use of our time than sitting here being useless,” Sherlock retorted, glaring.

“Right you are.” Anthea glanced quickly at the traffic behind her and, in one swift manoeuvre, pulled up to the curb. “I’ll drive around and find somewhere to park, then meet you there.”

Sherlock gave no indication that he had heard her as he shoved open the door – ignoring the loud protest of a passing cyclist who was almost knocked from their bike – and strode around to Mycroft’s side, pulling his brother out of the car.

He kept a firm grip on his arm as Mycroft staggered onto the pavement, looking hopelessly around him as Anthea pulled away and disappeared into a sea of sleek, black cars. “My umbrella...where’s my umbrella?”

In a rare display of consideration, Sherlock threaded his brother’s arm through his own. “I’ll have to stand in for it for the time being. Hopefully I’ll do an adequate job.”

Mycroft had just enough time to shoot him a brief, grateful look before Sherlock tugged him along and they set off at the fastest walk they could manage without breaking into a jog – blinkered to the pedestrians having to jump out of the way as they sped down the street.

 

~

 

John was waiting for them in the waiting room, face haggard and lined with anxiety. He said nothing as he rose to greet the brothers, although it was obvious from the uncomfortable way his eyes flicked from one Holmes to the other that there was distasteful news on the tip of his tongue that he was more than a little reluctant to impart.

Mycroft felt his grip on Sherlock’s arm tighten and his heart take an uncomfortable plummet.

“What? What is it?” Sherlock demanded for the both of them.

“I’m afraid you can’t go in,” said John, looking apologetically at Mycroft. “And the doctors are under no obligation to even let us see him, let alone give us any information.”

Mycroft stared, finding it incredibly difficult to untangle John’s words into a coherent sentence and not being particularly happy with the result when he finally managed it. “Why?”

Doctor Watson hesitated, then, in a strained voice edged with sympathy, “Caroline is with him.”

If you asked him, Mycroft wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what it was he felt at this news, nor what his rationale for breaking free of his brother and marching purposefully through the swinging door and down the hall.

His head whipped left and right as he passed by each door, peering swiftly through each small window to scrutinize the room it looked into, before grinding to a halt – breathless from the exertion and unfamiliar emotions.

Fingers pressing down upon the shallow ledge of the window, Mycroft couldn’t help but stare in on the scene from the other side of the glass – the familiar form of Gregory lay as though on display on an elevated hospital bed, a white sheet tucked neatly around him, arms positioned perfectly by his side. He looked like a sculpture, an unconvincing copy of the subject... Mycroft half expected the real Gregory to sidle up beside him with a light laugh and a flippant, “It doesn’t look remotely like me, does it?”

What made it even less convincing, was the woman seated beside the ... body; back turned towards the door, Caroline sat hunched by her ex-husband’s bedside, her hand resting on his, head bowed.

 _‘That ought to be me,’_ was Mycroft instant reaction, taking himself by surprise as all the feelings that had been lurking in the back of his mind finally leapt to the front.

The proverbial bolt of lightning...

Biting his lip and raising his chin, the only thing Mycroft was sure of was that it felt _right_ as his long fingers curled around the door-handle and pressed down with his palm.

“Excuse me? Can I help you?”

Startled, Mycroft released the handle and spun around to come face to face with the unwelcoming expression of an exceptionally short, round nurse, who informed him – on no uncertain terms – that, “You can’t go in there. Family only. Are you a relative of Mr Lestrade?”

“Detective Inspector,” Mycroft corrected without thinking, not quite sure why it mattered.

She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”

“He is Detective Inspector Lestrade, not Mister.”

“I wasn’t asking about for his identity, I was asking for yours.”

“I’m-” Mycroft glanced through the window once more – Caroline, obviously distracted by their voices, was now staring directly back at him.

This was not something he could do.

“I’m no one,” he told the nurse. “Forgive me.”

It was a struggle to keep his head up as he walked back down the hall from the direction he had come – the foreign feeling of utter rejection combined with the thought of the pitying look he would inevitably receive from Doctor Watson and the cynical one Sherlock would shoot him was close to unbearable.

“Excuse me! Excuse me!”

It took the call to be repeated before Mycroft realised that it was being directed towards him. He turned to see the slight form of Caroline Jacobs half-jogging down the linoleum towards him, looking as dishevelled as he felt. He despised how he knew her without ever having met her, although _this_ woman – face worn with anxiety – was a far cry from well-dressed, brightly made-up figure from the photographs he had analysed six months ago.

Caroline did not introduce herself when she reached him – clearly as familiar with his identity as he was with hers – rather, she stood before him half a foot shorter and with an expression of deep scrutiny rather than the angry one Mycroft would have expected from a woman in her position.

“I just wanted to tell you,” she said breathlessly, arms folded tight across her chest, “thank you for being there for Greg recently, but he is coming home with me once they release him.”

It had been the news that Mycroft had been anticipating, although that made it no easier to hear.

“We’re going to make another go at it,” she continued, raising her chin to meet Mycroft’s eyes squarely. “It’s funny how almost losing something makes you realise how important it actually is to you, isn’t it?” Caroline’s blithe laugh made Mycroft wince internally.

He couldn’t help himself, “ _‘Almost’_?”

The amicable countenance wavered briefly. “Greg’s recuperation period will give us the time we need to sort everything out between us,” she said curtly, ignoring Mycroft’s comment. “I want to give him the chance to fix things.”

“He’s conscious, then?”

“Pardon?”

Mycroft didn’t even attempt to mask the bite in his tone. “I presume, _Miss_ Jacobs, from your adamant intentions, that you conversed with Detective Inspector Lestrade and this is something you have agreed upon together?”

Caroline’s eyes narrowed. “I _know_ how to look after him. He deserves the best, Mr Holmes, and he knows that the best is to be at home, with his wife.”

Mycroft’s gaze fell to her left hand which was still conspicuously lacking in any sort of wedding band.

“Feelings don’t just disappear,” she went on defensively, as though Mycroft was arguing anything to the contrary. “Twenty years of love can’t just be forgotten in six months. There is still time for us.”

Any emotion within Mycroft now froze into ice. Fingers flexing by his side, he spoke coldly, “You forfeited any time you may have had when you chose to betray the man who loved you. If you were even fractionally sincere in your wish for his happiness, you would not be here now.”

Blood rushed to her face. “Somebody had to be! I am his wife, it is my-”

“Why you insist upon speaking of your marriage in the present tense is really beyond me,” Mycroft cut across her smoothly, getting into his stride as contempt overrode any other less practical emotion; contempt was something he was comfortable with. “It is neither healthy for you, nor your former husband, nor, in fact, anybody else, to insist upon labouring under such delusions.”

“Whether it is a delusion or not,” Caroline responded coolly, “the fact remains, that the hospital called _me_. It is also the case, no matter what you seem to think, that my say when it comes to Greg weighs significantly more than yours. Whatever there may or may not be between my husband and me, _I_ am not the one with the biggest delusions here, Mr Holmes.” She did not smile, but her tone was triumphant as she finally got to the crux of what she had called him back to say. “Regardless of anything else, the fact remains that it will be _me_ beside him when he wakes, not you.” And, with a final, “It was a pleasure to finally meet you,” Caroline turned on her heel to return to Greg.

 

~

 

“Tea?”

A plastic cup was pressed into the hand Mycroft was not using to brace himself against the outside wall of the hospital. He accepted it gratefully and raised it, shaking, to his lips – it was vile and tasted like machines, but it was hot and wet, and surely that was all that mattered.

Mycroft felt like crying.

Regarding his brother for a moment with a deep frown, Sherlock pulled him round to the deserted side of the building and whipped out a half-finished packet of Windsor Blue, from which he took two.

“I thought you were giving up?” Mycroft asked dully as Sherlock lit up.

The other man shrugged and passed the cigarette to him before lighting his own with a mumbled, “Don’t tell John.”

Mycroft smiled thinly and drew hard on the filter, holding the smoke in his mouth for a fraction too long before letting it escape in a thin stream. The nicotine was good, providing just a little blessed relief from the discomfort of his mind.

The brothers stood together in companionable silence for several long drawn-out minutes, then – discarding his cigarette butt – Mycroft looked sideways at Sherlock and asked softly, almost reluctantly, “How did you know?”

Sherlock’s eyes flicked to meet his, his answer a simple, “John.”

Deflated, Mycroft glanced away again. “Ah.”

“But,” Sherlock conceded, lighting him another, “it was fairly obvious.”

Mycroft accepted the cigarette with a troubled frown, not desperately keen to hear Sherlock’s reasoning but knowing he was going to get it anyway.

“You’ve lost half a stone in the last fortnight,” Sherlock pointed out, although his tone was more concerned than the familiar jibe which Mycroft had been anticipating. “It’s not the same,” he continued softly. Mycroft kept his gaze averted and the filter firmly between his lips. “As before, I mean. Lestrade’s not like that.”

A pained expression crossed the elder Holmes’ face. “I know that,” he muttered, attempting to sip his tea. “ _Rationally_.”

“But irrationally?”

Mycroft sighed. “Irrationally, I can’t help it. I don’t know how else to...” stopping abruptly, he shook his head, feeling utterly wretched. “This is why I _don’t_ do this,” he muttered viciously, fist clenching around the flimsy cup in his hand. “I despise the way I am and I _hate_ the person I become. Look at me,” he held out a trembling hand for Sherlock’s analysis, “this is an illogical reaction and I don’t understand it. Ever since...ever since this nonsense began, the connection between my mind and body has become disjointed, and I don’t know how to...” he swallowed hard, sincerely wishing he had never begun this conversation, “do it properly.”

“But other people manage,” Sherlock pointed out. “It’s never something that has appealed to me personally, but there must be something in it. Look,” he stepped around to stand before his brother who met his eyes willingly – desperate for any small comfort Sherlock was able to provide. “You’ve had _one_ experience which was...” he sighed, “ _less than good_. You cannot base everything you know on _that_ , Mycroft. Apparently, it is something that takes practise – something _you_ haven’t had. You cannot expect to just be able to _do_ it...” voice tapering away, Sherlock frowned – frustrated that his advice was flimsy at best, having had even less firsthand experience of ‘relationships of a romantic sort’ than his brother. He shrugged and finished with an earnest, “You’ve got to give yourself a chance.”

Mycroft gave a dry chuckle, sending a cloud of smoke into the air between them. “That’s precisely the advice Harry gave me.”

Sherlock’s expression darkened several degrees, jaw tightening. “You’ve _seen_ him?”

“Briefly,” Mycroft admitted. “It was... _insightful_.”

“Oh yes?”

“Well,” his tone was light, almost casual, as though they merely discussing gossip of the hour, “it confirmed everything I already knew.”

Sherlock’s, on the other hand, was frozen. “And that is?”

“That it is better not to put myself in that position a second time.” Not wanting to see the expression on his brother’s face, Mycroft pressed his lips shut around the end of his cigarette and concentrated on the smouldering ash which had almost reached his finger-tips.

“ _He_ said that?” Sherlock’s disgust was almost physical. “How can you pay any attention to that man when he-”

“He didn’t say anything of the sort,” Mycroft snapped back, glaring at his brother. “The content of the conversation is, I believe, irrelevant. It is rather... the feelings it induced which is more to the point.”

Sherlock raised a cynical eyebrow. “The ‘feelings it induced’ were, no doubt, the ones you expected and, therefore, the entire meeting was a self-fulfilling prophecy,” he said curtly. “I will say this once and only once, but perhaps Harry is right – you need to give yourself a chance to move forward. What’s done is done etcetera, you can’t let something that happened two decades ago dictate your life now.”

Mycroft winced and regarded the smouldering end of his cigarette before discarding it with a practised flick. “It isn’t as simple as that, Sherlock. And besides,” he added before Sherlock had a chance to argue, “it is of no importance now; when he awakes, Gregory will return to Caroline and that will be that.”

Something twitched within him, the cup slipped from his fingers, and it was only Sherlock slipping a quick arm around his waist that kept him from falling into the puddle of lukewarm tea as Mycroft staggered sideways, head and heart too heavy to hold up alone.

“How many times do I have to tell you,” he heard Sherlock murmur in his ear using the same tone of impatience usually reserved for John, “it won’t be the same. Lestrade isn’t like that. The likelihood of it happening twice is incredibly low, to say the least, and surely you have learnt by now that he is never anything less than sincere?”

Lacking the energy required to formulate any sort of response in his head, let alone out loud, Mycroft simply leant his head against his brother’s shoulder and stood waiting for the moment to pass in the hope that the next one would be more bearable.

It was better, he decided, pressing his eyes shut, that it should end before it really began. However this felt now was nothing compared to how it would potentially be in a month, six months, a year down the line...

 In a considerate silence, reserved only for the most critical of circumstances, Sherlock stood with his arm around his brother’s shoulders and prepared himself to wait indefinitely something happened to make Mycroft understand what – to him – was both obvious and inevitable.

It came eventually in the form of Doctor Watson.

 He appeared around the corner of the building with a frustrated, “For god sake, there you are!”

Sherlock glared at the intruder as Mycroft raised his head and attempted to support his own weight. “ _What_?”

The glare ricocheted back at him before John directed his attention towards Mycroft, expression softening as he spoke, “Greg’s awake and is wondering if you’re still around.” 

His stomach flipped with relief and anxiety, the dryness of his mouth making it a struggle to work the question free of his lips, “Caroline?”

“Gone,” said John with the very slightest of smiles. “I followed her out to come find you.”

Mycroft felt Sherlock chuckle in triumph. “Hate to say it, brother...”

He didn’t wait to hear it.

 

~

 

“You stink of smoke.”

“And you look like death.”

“I suppose neither of us win, then.”

“I suppose so.”

They shared a smile, fingers woven together for better reasons than because ‘that’s what one does by the bedside of a man who’s been shot’. Each man’s grip on the other was equal in strength and intent; the hesitation as Mycroft leant down lasting for barely a second.

They lingered there for a moment – nose to nose in silent negotiation – before, finally, closing the distance between them with a kiss.


	17. Finding the Equation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg look for that comfortable place that fits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Krisjo for fixing my fails! <3

** Chapter Seventeen: Finding the Equation. **

****

“What do you want for dinner? I can do pasta, stir-fry, almost much anything with mince...”

Greg twisted round from his position on the sofa to look towards the kitchen where Mycroft was rummaging through his cupboards. “Do you have to cook? I feel awful that you’ve been doing all this work whilst I just lie here being useless...”

Mycroft’s head appeared around the doorway with an ‘are-we-really-having-this-conversation-again?’ expression. “Gregory,” he said in the deliberate, slow manner which was normally reserved for the Shadow Cabinet, “you are a recovering invalid and I am looking after you.”

“Yes, but-”

“And I am happy to do so.” Mycroft wandered into the living room with an amused smile and perched himself on the arm of the settee by Greg’s head. “The doctor ordered that you have _complete_ rest,” he reminded the detective inspector sternly, “and I have taken the responsibility to ensure you follow that order. _To the letter_.”

“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean that you have to _wait_ on me,” Greg protested, slumping back down against his nest of pillows with a low groan.

Concerned by the pain Lestrade was obviously in, Mycroft pursed his lips, wishing he was able to offer the proper comfort required in situations such as these. It was frustrating to them both – although neither would dream of mentioning it to the other – that this had happened at such an early point, where the inevitable awkwardness of a new relationship had not yet had time to wear down into something more comfortable.

Forcing away the trepidation which always accompanied the possibility of physical contact, Mycroft reached out a timid hand and combed his fingers through Greg’s hair, hoping ardently that one day soon it would stop coming as a surprise when the other man didn’t spring away in horror. Feeling the slight movement of Greg leaning into rather than way from his touch, Mycroft smiled – relaxing himself as consent was granted. “So,” he murmured, stroking the hair lightly, “you don’t want me to cook for you, you’re forbidden from moving from the settee... Are we to starve tonight?”

Chuckling contentedly, Greg leaned back to look upside-down at him, “I was thinking it might be nice just to veg out with a film and takeaway tonight. Maybe Dominos?”

Mycroft looked down at him blankly. “Dominos?”

“Yeah. You know, pizza?”

Mycroft couldn’t honestly say that he _did_ know. “I suppose this _is_ a possibility,” he said doubtfully. “And where are we to get this?”

“Far right cupboard, top drawer.”

Mycroft followed the instructions and returned shortly with a large wad of pamphlets. He passed them to Greg who received them with the air of a professional about to impart his hard-earned knowledge to an amateur.

“Right,” he said briskly, rearranging his legs to make room for Mycroft beside him as he picked out the brightly-coloured pizza menu and discarded the other on the floor, “I recommend this one, although this one is pretty good too...that one’s a _bit_ suspect, and that one should be avoided at all cost. And whatever we _do_ decide on, we _have_ to get cookies – it is imperative.” He glanced sideways, “What do you think?”

Mycroft was staring at the brightly coloured menu in utter bewilderment. “Umm...yes?”

Greg laughed. “Very well; you choose what to stick on and I’ll employ my pizza expertise to choose the food. DVDs are in that box over there.”

~

After Mycroft’s first five choices of film had been dismissed out of hand – “You won’t like that one, saw that one last week, Caroline’s, that’ll annoy you, not on a first-“ – they finally agreed on _Batman_ on Greg’s insistence that ‘you cannot call yourself a real person until you have seen _Batman_!’ although Mycroft had scoured the reviews, had dithered over the DVD, and privately thought there was a _reason_ he had yet to see it... But these were the days of compromise and it was a small sacrifice that he was willing to make.

What he was less convinced by was Greg’s insistence that they eat out of the box with their _fingers_.

“Oh, stop complaining and press play!” was all the sympathy he received from Lestrade, who was busy balancing the box on his legs which were now draped across Mycroft’s. “It’s all part of the experience.”

The instinctive retort of, ‘ _this is not necessarily an experience I wish to endure’_ teetered on the edge of falling but, to his surprise, Mycroft found himself retracting the words upon the peculiar realisation that, in actual fact, it was.

Greg smiled to himself as he furtively watched Mycroft’s mind go through the motions of determining the acceptability of the situation, before settling on a decision – the _right_ decision, it seemed by the way he settled back and relaxed into the sofa.

“Pizza?” Lestrade pushed the box a little further towards Mycroft as the title sequence flashed up.

  Mycroft lifted a slice gingerly and examined it with a sceptical expression. It appeared _less_ than appetising...

“It won’t bite you if _you_ bite _it_ first,” said Greg, amused.

“Hmmm...” Mycroft raised the pizza with both hands and nibbled cautiously. His eyebrows shot up in surprise – It tasted _good_!

Triumphant, Greg smirked and picked up a piece of his own, offering a low, “Told you so,” before devouring the pizza in several large bites.

Mycroft’s mouth was too full of pepperoni to argue.

 

~

The film was loud, predictably inconsistent, and Mycroft soon found himself losing interest in whatever it was that was going on on the screen. The pizza – which had been consumed _far_ too quickly to be decent – had settled in a most uncomfortable position at the bottom of his stomach and refused to shift; he had cramp in his legs, and a desperate desire for tea, but was acutely aware that he was stuck in his position at least until the film ended.

Greg was in a not much better position himself; he could see the discomfort spreading across Mycroft’s expression, and was suddenly very keenly aware of every little flaw, every tiny continuity error within the film. Everything that had previously elicited giggles from him, now made Greg cringe, and he berated himself for inflicting his appalling taste in home cinema upon Mycroft.

Pizza and a film... It had seemed like a perfectly logical idea in his head. After all, that’s what people did when they were ‘dating’, wasn’t it? He felt the muscles in Mycroft’s legs twitch restlessly beneath his own and sighed internally, feeling like a prize idiot – they weren’t teenagers in the first passionate throes of romance, they were two middle-aged men with an appalling history of failed relationships, trying an age-old equation and forcing themselves to fit it.

Batman and pizza... it was like trying to make two plus two equal five – a pointless effort. Deciding that continuing would be the least productive way forward, Greg shifted awkwardly and reached for the remote, resolutely switching off the television.

Surprised, Mycroft glanced sideways. “Everything okay?”

Greg swung his legs around with a slight grimace of pain and pushed himself up, wobbling slightly as his legs were forced to remember how to support him. “Tea?”

Mycroft rose immediately. “I’ll make it-”

“No, no,” Greg limped towards the kitchen before Mycroft could protest further. “You sit down. I’ll bring it in.”

Obeying reluctantly, Mycroft watched Greg’s retreating back with an incredible heaviness – in absolutely no way was this going well. He sighed and let his head flop back against the headrest, closing his eyes for a brief moment of solitary contemplation. He had honestly – and, perhaps, naively – assumed that the tallest hurdle had been crossed, that surely the excruciating pressure of admitting their feelings meant that it could only become easier, that any progress they made would surely be positive...

Mycroft allowed his mind to wander back to the rarely-visited memories of twenty years ago, trying to recall how the beginning had been with Harry. It was far from consoling.

“Here.”

He opened his eyes at the chink of ceramic on glass as Greg set down the two mugs he was carrying on the coffee table.

Mycroft looked down at the tea. “Tetley’s?”

Greg laughed and collapsed back down beside him. “Nah, PG Tips. It’s a special occasion.”

Mycroft wasn’t _exactly_ sure how he was supposed to respond to that, and so busied himself with the careful examination of his mug, turning it slowly three-hundred and sixty degree with feigned interest.

A softly spoken murmur of his name accompanied by a hand resting gently on his knee made Mycroft flinch before he could stop himself. As much as he avoided leg-work at all costs, at that moment all he could feel was the almost overwhelming desire to run, to just _bolt_...It was like an irrepressible phobia; as much as he wished he was different, as much as he wanted this, Mycroft could not help the way his body was screaming in protest. It felt like an allergy, with his head pounding with the pressure, his mouth dry and his cheeks burning.

Why anyone would willingly put themselves through that was an absolute mystery, thought Mycroft, panicking slightly as Greg shifted closer – his intentions as plain as day. Since the moment in the hospital, their physical displays of affection had been very much limited to brief, chaste kisses of either ‘hello’ or ‘goodbye’, and the odd, shortly-lived touch here and there, and Mycroft had been privately dreading the inevitable moment that Greg demand their relationship follow the natural progression to _more_.

Lestrade stopped and frowned, his nose less than two inches from Mycroft’s. “What’s wrong?” he asked, a little putout that his advances where being met less-than enthusiastically.  “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

“I’m not looking at you like anything.”

“Yes you are. You’re looking as though I am springing this from nowhere.”

Mycroft had no adequate argument against this.

Greg groaned in annoyance and snatched up his mug.

Copying his movements with a soft sigh of regret, Mycroft crossed his leg – now distinctly devoid of Greg’s hand – over the other.

The tea was good, he found to his surprise as he sipped cautiously – a distinct improvement on the Tetley’s, and obviously brewed with significantly more care. ‘ _A special occasion’,_ Greg had said. Perhaps it was meant merely as a flippant comment, perhaps not...Mycroft couldn’t rightly say. He risked a glance over the rim of his mug at Greg, who was glowering down at his own tea with a distinct expression of disappointment. “I’m sorry,” he said softly, sincerely.

Greg glanced up glumly. “Mmm.”

Mycroft swallowed hard, knowing that the only possible route forward was to take a step away from his comfort-zone. “Don’t think it’s a reflection on us.”

This was met with a hollow laugh. “Well, what else am I supposed to think?” Greg challenged. “I go to kiss you and you behave as though it’s an attack! _Christ,_ Mycroft! I appreciate you taking care of me and all, but you’re my boyfriend, not my bloody nurse and I’m sorry I want to treat you as such!”

But Mycroft had stopped being able to listen, the word ‘boyfriend’ – so casually released into the ether – lingering between them like a brick wall.

He hadn’t even considered ‘boyfriend’, either in the sense of being one or having one...Mycroft tested it silently on his tongue, then tentatively out loud, trying it for size, “Boyfriend...”

Greg’s expression dropped from frustration to crestfallen. “ _Not_ boyfriend?”

“No no!” said Mycroft hastily. “I didn’t mean it like that! I only meant...” he blushed and dipped his head a fraction. “It holds so much weight, I...I wasn’t quite prepared for it.”

Greg cocked his head to the side. “ _Weight_?”

“Mmm.” Mycroft nodded, searching for the right words to articulate what was going through his head. “It implies a –“ he licked his lips, struggling to force the words out into the open, “a certain _permanence_ , or, at least, a degree of stability, and a modicum of...commitment? I could be entirely wrong, of course,” he added in a fast gabble, feeling his ears burning. “Please correct me if-”

“Mycroft?”

He looked up tremulously from his fidgeting hands. “Yes?”

The ‘shut up and stop being silly’ was implied as Greg moved forwards and tilted his head to place a soft, encouraging kiss upon Mycroft’s lips, lingering long enough to prove the point before pulling away with a smile. “Be my boyfriend?” he asked with the coyness of an adolescent.

Pleasure crinkled Mycroft’s eyes and twitched his lips – still tingling with the ghost of the kiss. He nodded gladly. “Although I doubt I’ll be much good at it,” he warned, slipping his hands into Greg’s and squeezing, “I’m afraid it’s not something I know a great deal about.”

“Have you ever...” Greg began cautiously, but stopped as he felt Mycroft begin to freeze up again – a pained expression briefly marring the pleasure they had finally achieved.

Mycroft’s gaze dropped uncomfortably. “I don’t...I can’t...”

“It’s okay,” Greg stopped him quickly, stroking the sharp knuckles with his thumb. “It’s not a conversation we need to have now.” Although it was clearly one that needed explaining before too long, but Mycroft’s expression of acute relief made Greg put it aside for the time being.

“So, what precisely does it entail being,” the pleased smile spread once again across Mycroft’s face, the word still very much a novelty, “ _boyfriends_.”

“Well,” Greg shifted and, deciding that their new agreement gave him liberty to be more forthright, slipped an arm around Mycroft’s shoulders (he celebrated internally when there was no sign of discomfort or protest) “for one thing, we ought to make it facebook official, otherwise it doesn’t count –” Mycroft shot him a scathing, contemptuous glance, then burst out laughing, throwing back his head and resting it against the arm behind him. It occurred to Greg that he greatly liked it, seeing the normally perfectly composed man relinquish all sense of formality in such a way, and made it his personal goal to make it a regular occurrence then and there. “It also means we’re allowed to be terribly unprofessional with one another outside of our homes,” he continued very seriously, “aaand it means you must reign in your insatiable tendency towards sexual deviancy, and wear a badge saying ‘Out of Bounds’ at all times. Okay?”

Mycroft chuckled lightly and slid down a little way to rest his head properly against the broad shoulder he found fit him perfectly. 

They looked sideways at each other and discovered the comfortable place they had both been waiting for.

Greg sighed and rested his cheek against Mycroft’s head, feeling the most contented he had been in more years than he cared to count. “In all honesty, Mycroft, I haven’t a clue either. I reckon we’ll just have to work it out as we go along. See how it goes, and all that.”

He felt Mycroft hum approvingly as he added a decisive, “Slowly,” to the table,

“Yes,” Greg pressed a warm kiss to the crown of his head. “At our own pace.”

 


	18. Tea with Mother

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It felt like nothing could ruin the bliss they had discovered in one another, but fate is a cruel mistress.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you Krisjo, Lyricalsoulster and Celestialteapot for your huge helps <3  
> Apologies for the delay - this chapter was re-written many times; in the end I decided it's going to be a two-parter so...Yeah :)

**_Sherlock:_** I need you to make sure that my brother is at Baker Street at one o'clock tomorrow afternoon. -SH

 

 ** _Lestrade:_** Why?

 

 ** _Sherlock:_** It's a surprise. Make sure you're both here. -SH

 

 ** _Lestrade:_** Can't you at least tell _me_ what it's about?

 

 ** _Sherlock:_** Do you really think _you_ are able to keep any sort of secret from Mycroft? I never had you down as delusional, Lestrade. Trust me – it's a good surprise. -SH

 

 ** _Lestrade:_** Fine. I'll do my best. See you tomorrow.

 

~

 

 ** _Gregory_** _:_ Fancy having lunch tomorrow? We haven't been in our café for ages! Say, twelve?

 

 ** _Mycroft:_** That would be delightful. I was going to suggest doing something tomorrow anyway – it seems years since we’ve spent any real time together. -M

 

 ** _Gregory:_** It's only been two days! And they're because your head was turned by the Foreign Secretary. It's fine, it's fine. Don't apologise. I know I can't compete...

 

 ** _Gregory:_** P.S. I miss you.

 

 ** _Mycroft_** : The FS might have had my body, but my mind remained true to you. I felt quite unfaithful at times... I miss you too. -M

 

 ** _Gregory:_** Do I need to start sewing tags into your clothes saying 'Property of D.I Lestrade'? Is that what we have come to, Mycroft?

 

 ** _Mycroft_ : **If you wish to do so, I would not object. -M

 

 ** _Gregory:_** I'll make sure to bring some along tomorrow, then.

 

 ** _Mycroft:_** I look forward to it immensely. -M

 

 ** _Gregory:_** x

 

**_Mycroft: x_ **

 

~

 

They greeted each other warmly with sincere smiles and uninhibited kisses, as though they had been parted for months rather than simply forty-eight hours – each pleasantly surprised to find that the other had not changed their mind since Tuesday.

“Did you bring labels?” Mycroft asked, lips quirking into a teasing smile.

“Of course.”

He was kissed again, hard – Greg’s hands moving to his hips and pulling them closer together. Greg smirked and cocked his head to one side, admiring the pink tinge flushing across Mycroft's cheeks. “There you go. Now nobody can be in any doubt.”

Neither gave a thought to the looks they were receiving as they stood in the middle of the London street in broad daylight, behaving like love-struck adolescents.

Eventually the knowledge that this _wasn't_ their last chance to see each other, they pulled reluctantly away, grinning dopily through kiss-swollen lips, and entered the little café.

It was odd to think that the last time they had been there everything had been so completely different, and teetering on the very edge of such big change...

They stood together, hand in hand, and considered the enormity of what it had taken place here and the consequences it had had for them, both separately and together.

Greg turned his head slightly at the soft, “It's funny, isn't it?” that came from Mycroft.

He nodded slowly in agreement. “Bizarre.”

Mycroft glanced sideways with a raised eyebrow. “Good bizarre?”

Greg smiled and gave the hand in his a brief squeeze. “The best.”

 

They settled down at their usual table and Greg introduced Mycroft to the delights of Breakfast For Lunch – something which Mycroft found to be both perplexing and delightful, having never really understood the attraction himself. He was immediately hooked and at once proposed that they make it a regular occurrence. Even more enticing was Greg's casual proclamation that his own home-made fry-ups were far superior, and Mycroft actually wiggled in his seat when he was promised he could come over for one any time he liked.

They shared pudding – a dense slice of apple pie, with custard and two spoons, and then a second because Greg felt like he didn't get his fair share. Not that he got his fair share the second time round either.

It seemed to both men as though life couldn't be better; the awkwardness between them had completely passed, leaving only a residue of warm contentment. They were still very much aware that they were in the early days, but the early days of something _good_ , something mutually favourable which – in their individual private opinions, made a bloody change.

Sitting back in his seat, blissfully full and content, Greg glanced surreptitiously over Mycroft's shoulder to the wall clock hanging above them whilst Mycroft himself was distracted by turning the dregs of his tea into something palatable. Twelve forty-five... Lestrade chewed his lip, the cogs of his mind whirring as he tried to formulate a plan to get Mycroft to Baker Street without sounding too contrived.

“Um...”

Setting his empty mug down upon the plastic tablecloth, Mycroft lifted his eyes to meet Greg's, eyebrow raised in expectation.

Greg faltered for a moment, then said casually, “I've got to nip over to Baker Street to pick something up from John. Fancy coming?”

Mycroft wrinkled his nose in distaste, but nodded. “Let's not stay long though. If it's a choice of spending an afternoon with you or with my brother, I know which I prefer.”

 

~

 

The bright and cheery welcome they received from Sherlock as the front door opened did nothing to alleviate the distinct sense of foreboding in Greg's head. Nor did the quizzical look Mycroft shot him at Sherlock's exclamation of, “Good job, Lestrade! I didn't think you'd be able to pull it off!”

At a gesture from his brother, Mycroft began the assent upstairs with Greg two steps behind him and Sherlock taking up the rear. Confusion was not a comfortable place for Mycroft – it nearly always ended badly, and to think that Gregory had had a hand in it put him even more on edge. His senses were all on high-alert as they reached the landing, and he lingered several steps away from the doorway into the living room – almost apprehensive of what he was to find there. He wished that they were still in the café, or walking along the Thames as they had planned to do, or at Greg's flat sorting out boxes of books, or just anywhere but there...

A meaningful push from Sherlock in the small of his back sent Mycroft stumbling over the last few steps and into the cluttered sitting room, Straightening up, he found himself face to face with the person he had least expected, and least wanted, to see.

Mrs Holmes' lips tightened, her expression hard with surprise – evidently as pleased to see her son as he was to see her.

Mycroft found himself rendered mute and immobile as he struggled to register what was happening – until Sherlock, who was dragging a very bewildered Greg along after him, moved in-between them with a chirpy, “Well, this is nice, isn't it?” pushed his brother down onto the sofa and placed Greg beside him, looking very pleased with himself.

'Nice' was not a word any of the other three would've chosen to use.

Mrs Holmes' glare shifted from her eldest to her youngest as Sherlock took the seat beside her. “What is _he_ doing here?”

Mycroft turned his face towards the empty corner of the room and focused on a tear in the wallpaper. He could already feel the uncomfortably familiar tightness beginning to clench itself around him, smothering the lightness of the day – of the past few weeks – and injecting the old instabilities back into his system against his will.

“I thought it would be nice,” Sherlock tried to explain, although he sounded unconvincing even to his own ears. “I can’t remember the last time we had a get together.” He laughed awkwardly into the stony silence.

“And who’s he supposed to be?” She nodded towards Greg who was perched on the edge of his seat feeling out of depth and out of place.

“This is Detective Inspector Lestrade.” Sherlock waved a vague hand between them as an introduction. “Lestrade, our mother.”

Greg rose quickly upon being addressed and leant over to offer a hand. “Very pleased to meet you.” He hoped he sounded at least a little sincere. “I’ve heard a great deal-”

“I highly doubt that.” Mrs Holmes sniffed and looked towards her youngest, ignoring Greg’s hand completely. “And why is he here?”

“He’s-”

“I’m Mycroft’s boyfriend,” Greg informed her tightly, irritated that that he was being treated as though he wasn’t there. “I am here for him.”

Mrs Holmes’ lip curled unpleasantly, her eyes – identical to her sons’ – swept over him, appraising Greg coldly, before fixing on Mycroft who was still keeping his had turned determinedly away. “Boyfriend?” She laughed and shook her head as if it were a poor joke. “Have you still not grown out of that nonsense, Mycroft? Really, I think it’s about time you were sensible about these things. You’re running out of time, if you have any time left at all. You need to start putting a little effort in instead of playing these silly games.”

Sherlock sighed and rubbed his head. “ _Mother_. Don’t start-”

“Well what did you expect to happen?” Mycroft snapped suddenly, jerking his head around to glare at his brother. “How _exactly_ did you expect this to go, Sherlock?”

“Mycroft…” Greg’s hand felt burning hot as it slipped over his in an attempt to calm him.

Mycroft jerked away with a hiss, still smarting from the knowledge of the role Greg had played in all this, and now he had the _audacity_ to presume he had the right to check him in such a way! And in front of people…

Stiff with anger and humiliation, Mycroft fixed his eyes determinedly on a bullet hole in the wall and counted down from a hundred in prime numbers, trying not see the look of triumph on his mother’s face or notice the hurt on Greg’s. Breathing was beginning to become laborious and it was painful to have to try and not let it show. _Inhale…1, 3, 5, 7… exhale… 11, 13, 17, 19… inhale… 23, 29, 31, 37…exhale…palms together, fingers clasped blink once every five seconds and you’ll be fine. Everything’s bearable if you remember to keep existing._

At least he hadn’t forgotten the old tricks.

“How long have you and my son been… _at it_ , Mr Lestrade?”

“Um…” Dazed and more than a little confused by the whole situation, Greg tore his eyes away from where Mycroft pointedly ignoring him to address Mrs Holmes’ question, choosing not to notice the barb of derision. “Not long. A couple of months. We’re taking it slow.”

“I see.” Each word issued from the woman’s mouth was slippery and insidious, and made Greg’s skin prickle. “And have you always been so inclined?”

Greg shifted uncomfortably. “Not exactly. I was married until relatively recently.”

“Indeed?” Her eyes flicked to Mycroft, lips curled in an amused smile. “A rebound. How interesting…It’s beginning to make more sense to me now.”

Mycroft’s fingers twitched in his lap and he had to work harder to concentrate on the spot in the wall. _71, 73, 79,83…_ The exhale was unsteady… _87, 101, 103, 107…_ He dug his finger nails into the palm of his hand to distract himself… _109, 111, 113, 117…_

Greg shifted uneasily. “I wouldn’t exactly call it a rebound-”

“So, the cause of the divorce was your desire to be in a,” She sniffed, “ _relationship_ with Mycroft?”

“Well, not exactly, but-”

“Are you in love with him?”

Greg’s cheeks coloured. “Excuse me?”

Mrs Holmes fixed him with a piercing eye that reminded him strikingly of Mycroft. “Are you in love with him?” she repeated with exaggerated slowness. “It’s a simple question, _Detective Inspector._ ”

In Greg’s opinion, she could not have asked a more complex one; they had not said it to one another yet, they were still laying down the foundations of their relationship, and – no matter how close to being able to say it Greg was – this was not the circumstances he had envisioned for their first time. He was brought uncomfortably back to the evening he had proposed to Caroline; the intention had been there, he had bought the ring the week before, he was ready to do it, but in his own time. Why his ex-sister-in-law had had to interfere and announce at a family dinner that she had found the ring in his jacket pocket… He remembered feeling several pairs of eyes all fix upon him expectantly, just as they did now, rushing him and putting him on the spot. He remembered hesitating in the same way and hating himself for doing it, but being able to say either ‘yes’ or ‘no’ because neither was appropriate.

“I-”

“I’m going to make tea,” Mycroft announced suddenly, unable to stand this any longer. He had lost count the moment the question had left his mother’s lips, despising the way she belittled the sentiment with her mocking tone, and stung – yet unsurprised – by Greg’s unwillingness to answer. He rose unsteadily, using the arm of the sofa to lever himself up.

 Greg got up after him, sensing Mycroft’s disappointment and needing the chance to explain. “Mycroft…”

“Leave him,” Mrs Holmes said coolly, looking after her eldest’s retreating back. “Don’t rise to it. He’s always loved his little dramas.”

“Fuck you,” Greg told her with all the calmness of barely contained anger. “And fuck you too,” he added, glancing at Sherlock who, for the first time in their acquaintance, was looking distinctly contrite. Greg shook his head in disgust and turned his back with a muttered, “Unbelievable,” before following after Mycroft and sliding the door between the kitchen and living room shut, giving them at least the illusion of privacy.

 

He stood for a moment and watched Mycroft reach up to rummage in the higher cupboards, looking – no doubt – for something that bore even the vaguest resemblance to half-decent tea. He gave up and fetched down a large box of PG Tips Pyramids – John’s personal stash – and slammed it down upon the countertop, causing several teabags to jump out and scatter across the linoleum. They were ignored. Greg moved cautiously around him and bent to retrieve the fallen teabags, throwing them with a skilful aim towards the open bin before standing beside Mycroft and rinsing a chipped teapot under the tap. He was ignored also.

Feeling distinctly dejected, Greg moved a Bunsen burner and a petri-dish containing an unknown specimen from the nearest tray and slid it towards Mycroft, glancing at the other man out of the corner of his eye. Mycroft’s expression was tight and unyielding; his lips were set into a single, hard line, his nostrils were flared angrily and he kept his eyes determinedly fixed upon the box of tea as he waited for the kettle to boil.

“You okay?” Greg asked quietly, inching his hand closer to Mycroft’s.

“Fine.”

“No you’re not.” Their fingertips brushed.

Mycroft jerked his hand away, almost knocking over the teapot. “Then why ask?”

Greg sighed and turned to face him. “Mycroft, look…I know you’re upset, but there’s no point taking it out on me.”

“Thank you for, once again, informing me of what I should and should not do,” Mycroft returned with a snarl, grabbing a handful of mugs from the same cupboard he had found the tea. “I’ll be sure to take your advice, seeing as you have made yourself the _leading fucking expert_!”

Wincing, Greg rubbed his forehead. “You know that’s not what I-”

“I do not need this from _you_ as well!” The last note was plaintive, with just the slightest waver, and conveyed all the hurt that had been building up since they had arrived at Baker Street.

Greg swallowed, hating himself for the role he had played in this fiasco. “I don’t mean to lecture,” he said softly. “And I am sorry for bringing you here in the first place.”

“Why did you?” Mycroft’s voice was barely above a murmur as he kept his head bowed, addressing the mugs more than Greg, who gave a hapless shrug.

“I didn’t know,” he replied lamely. “Sherlock said I should bring you, that it was a surprise -  a _good_ surprise – and I…Well,” he finished with a shake of his head. “I should’ve known better than to put my faith in Sherlock.”

 “Yes,” said Mycroft coolly, “you should’ve.”

“But I _didn’t_ know and I’m sorry. Come here.” He reached out to draw Mycroft to him, hoping that the affection would soften the tension.

“Stop telling me what to do!” Mycroft slapped him away again, bristling with anger. “Why do you suddenly presume to have the right to do that? If this is what a relationship is I _don’t_ want it!”

“ _Excuse me_?” Greg retreated back a step, staring at him in disbelief. “You don’t want what, exactly? You don’t want someone to try and pull you out of your mood? You don’t want someone to give a shit when you’re upset? _What_? I don’t _get_ you!”

A flicker of regret flashed across Mycroft’s eyes, before he raised his chin and looked at Greg levelly. “I don’t want somebody who thinks they can speak to me like a child.”

“Woah!” Greg raised his hands in surrender with a dry laugh. “Okay, fine. Let me get this straight – you want someone who will nod and smile and go ‘Yes, Mycroft’ and not tell you when you’re being a shit, right? Look,” He took a deep breath, gathering himself back under control and when he continued, he continued carefully. “I fucked up, I _know_ that. I have apologised, I am trying to support you. I want to be on _your_ side, but _you’re_ the one not letting me! I have no time people who whine and moan and refuse to let anyone help them, Mycroft, and I am surprised that you are one of those people. And more than a little disappointed, actually.” Greg made a disparaging sound in the back of his throat and shook his head. “You’ve obviously got a lot of shit to deal with but if you don’t want my help, that’s your prerogative. Fuck this, _I_ don’t need this from _you_.”  

Mycroft stared hopelessly after him as Greg turned on his heel and wrenched the sliding door back, storming through the living room and snatching up his jacket without a word of goodbye to any of them.

 


End file.
